present moment you owe, as I understand it, eleven hundred pounds.
BILL. About that.
SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a proposition to make.
BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir?
SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your motto in life.
BILL. Thanks!
SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [BILL looks at him in
silence] It's time you took your position seriously, instead of
hanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not.
BILL. Go ahead!
At something dangerous in his voice, SIR WILLIAM modifies his
attitude.
SIR, WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I can't suppose
anything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but
[drily] I mention it. Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for
the division; you can have the Dower House and fifteen hundred a
year, and I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're elected
I'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up the
constituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpetbagger
against you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if you
don't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. You can
take Rocketer and that four-year-old--he's well up to your weight,
fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want one other.
And if Miss--if your wife means to hunt----
BILL. You've chosen my wife, then?
SIR WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've some girl in
your mind.
BILL. Ah!
SIR WILLIAM: Used not to be unnatural at your age. I married your
mother at twenty-eight. Here you are, eldest son of a family that
stands for something. The more I see of the times the more I'm
convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and
save the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, and
prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under to
this infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's very
serious. We're threatened in a hundred ways. If you mean business,
you'll want a wife. When I came into the property I should have been
lost without your mother.
BILL. I thought this was coming.
SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain geniality] My dear fellow, I don't
want to put a pistol to your head. You've had a slack rein so far.
I've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats-so long as you
--er--[Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden movement] Short of
that--at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. I can only
judge by the--er--pecuniary evidence you've been good enough to
afford me from time to time. I imagine you've lived like a good many
young men in your position--I'm not blaming you, but there's a time
for all things.
BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry Mabel
Lanfarne?
SITS WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good family--got a
little money--rides well. Isn't she good-looking enough for you, or
what?
BILL. Quite, thanks.
SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were on
good terms.
BILL. Please don't drag mother into it.
SIR WILLIAM. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps you'll be good
enough to state your objections.
BILL. Must we go on with this?
SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything for me before; I
expect you to pay attention now. I've no wish to dragoon you into
this particular marriage. If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry
a girl you're fond of.
BILL. I refuse.
SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With a
sudden rush of choler] You young.... [He checks himself and stands
glaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that
you've got some entanglement or other.
BILL. Suppose what you like, sir.
SITS WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the blackguard----
BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning.
Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the
billiard-room.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it?
SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse! Go away, Dorothy.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for two months.
SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well--we must talk it over again.
LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both of you! Bill, do
finish those letters!
With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM toward the
billiard-room, and glances back at BILL before going out, but he
has turned to the writing-table. When the door is closed, BILL
looks into the drawing-room, them opens the door under the
stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down
there, and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evidently been
waiting, comes in and stands by the table.
BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know.
FREDA. Yes--but I must.
BILL. Well, then--[With natural recklessness] Aren't you going to
kiss me?
Without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry.
BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks?
FREDA. Quite--long enough--for you to have forgotten.
BILL. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon.
FREDA. No?
BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda?
FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was.
BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean?
FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out of
her dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer.
BILL. Now, look here
FREDA. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in a hurry.
BILL. Freda!
FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's all you really
loved me in.
BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear----
FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me.
BILL. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times--nothing's changed.
[FREDA looks at him and smiles.]
BILL. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself miserable.
FREDA. Everybody will be pleased.
BILL. At what?
FREDA. When you marry her.
BILL. This is too bad.
FREDA. It's what always happens--even when it's not a--gentleman.
BILL. That's enough.
FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn't
be afraid I'll say anything when--it comes. That's what I had to
tell you.
BILL. What!
FREDA. I can keep a secret.
BILL. Do you mean this? [She bows her head.]
BILL. Good God!
FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine. Like the puppies when
they hold them up by their tails. [With a sudden break in her voice]
Oh! Bill!
BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaks
away from her towards the fire] Good God!
She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away
by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to
speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He
walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece.
BILL. By Jove! This is----!
The curtain falls.
ACT II
The scene is LADY CHESHIRE's morning room, at ten o'clock on the
following day. It is a pretty room, with white panelled walls;
and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow
window overlooks the park under a sou'-westerly sky. A piano
stands open; a fire is burning; and the morning's correspondence
is scattered on a writing-table. Doors opposite each other lead
to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is
standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak,
which FREDA is holding out.
LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just give it up!
FREDA. I don't like to be beaten.
LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way,
I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles.]
LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up.
Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you had
better put that cloak away.
FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting doom at her writing-table] Very well.
FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the
corridor.
JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young woman from the
village, says you wanted to see her.
LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in. Oh! and Jackson
the car for the meet please at half-past ten.
JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY CHESHIRE rises with
worked signs of nervousness, which she has only just suppressed,
when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands
waiting by the door.
LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in!
[ROSE advances perhaps a couple of steps.]
LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice.
Your engagement with Dunning's broken off, isn't it?
ROSE. Yes--but I've told him he's got to marry me.
LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing?
ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to.
LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of him still.
ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it.
LADY CHESHIRE: And--do you think he's quite lost his affection for
you?
ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. He's
after that--that--He didn't ought to treat me as if I was dead.
LADY CHESHIRE. No, no--of course. But you will think it all well
over, won't you?
ROSE. I've a--got nothing to think over, except what I know of.
LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both t0 marry in that spirit! You know
it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready to
help you.
ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, my lady, but I
think he ought to marry me. I've told him he ought.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted to say. It's a
question of your self-respect; I can't give you any real advice. But
just remember that if you want a friend----
ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to do
what's right by me.
LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrow--gently] Yes,
yes--I see.
ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meeting the servants.
LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As they
reach the door, DOT comes in.]
DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldy
rehearsal, Mother?
LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here.
Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT,
with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according
to a diagram.
DOT. Chair--chair--table--chair--Dash! Table--piano--fire--window!
[Producing a pocket comb] Comb for Eccles. Cradle?--Cradle--[She
viciously dumps a waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into
it] Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter Eccles
breathless. Esther and Polly rise-Esther puts on lid of bandbox."
Bandbox!
Searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens the
workroom door.
DOT. Freda?
FREDA comes in.
DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down.
[FREDA does not answer.]
DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately.
FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot.
DOT. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic?
FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet.
DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse]
What is it, Freda?
FREDA. Nothing.
DOT. [Switching of on a different line of thought] Are you very busy
this morning?
FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady.
DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if I
can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind?
FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot.
DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see--what did I want?
JOAN has come in.
JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene. I'm sure I
ought to make more of it.
DOT. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by one
ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try!
JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have for
the baby? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggest
something, Freda?
FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don't
count much.
JOAN. Freda, how horrible!
DOT. [Dropping the footstool back into the basket] You'll just put
up with what you're given.
Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE Come in, FREDA turns
abruptly and goes out.
DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and find
them, mouse-cat.
But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are already in the
doorway. They come in, and LATTER, stumbling over the
waste-paper basket, takes it up to improve its position.
DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the footstool out of it]
Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points to
the workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the
piano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage!
Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise." Wait a
minute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a
bandbox.
HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, you know, you
feel such a fool.
DOT. [With her bandbox-gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when you
have begun. [To BILL, who is staring into the workroom] Shut the
door. Now. [BILL shuts the door.]
LATTER. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear up a point of
psychology before we start.
DOT. Good Lord!
LATTER. When I bring in the milk--ought I to bring it in seriously--
as if I were accustomed--I mean, I maintain that if I'm----
JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should----
DOT. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin!
Bill!
LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But I think you
underrate the importance of my entrance altogether.
MABEL. Oh! no, Mr. Latter!
LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the balance of the
scene, but I do want to be clear about the spirit. What is the
spirit?
DOT. [With gloom] Rollicking!
LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk, with
this play, if we rollick.
DOT. Shall we? Now look here----!
MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire!
BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on!
DOT. [Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin! At last!
[But JACKSON has came in.]
JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, Mm, if the young ladies
want to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round.
JOAN. [Starting up] Oh! come 'on, John!
[She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER.]
DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You----
[CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past.]
DOT. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] Pigs! Devils!
[She rushes after them. BILL and MABEL are left alone.]
MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups?
BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroom
door] Can't keep a dog in town. You can have one, if you like. The
breeding's all right.
MABEL. Sixth Pick?
BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy they
want 'em.
Mann. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] You
know, you remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're not
nearly so polite. I don't understand you English-lords of the soil.
The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden change
of voice] What was the matter with you last night? [Softly] Won't
you tell me?
BILL. Nothing to tell.
MABEL. Ah! no, Mr. Bill.
BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice--then sullenly] Worried, I
suppose.
MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it?
BILL. Don't chaff me, please.
MABEL. You really are rather formidable.
BILL. Thanks.
MABEL, But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull.
BILL. Really! Very interesting.
MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She moves
back as he advances] And overturning people on the journey.
BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful?
MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. And
then straight from that hedge into the opposite one.
BILL. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morning of all
mornings?
MABEL. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must be dull for poor
Freda working in there with all this fun going on?
BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it?
MABEL, To go back to you,--now--Mr. Cheshire.
BILL. No.
MABEL, You always make me feel so Irish. Is it because you're so
English, d'you think? Ah! I can see him moving his ears. Now he's
pawing the ground--He's started!
BILL. Miss Lanfarne!
MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her
eyes and smile] You can't help coming after me! [Then with a sudden
change to a sort of sierra gravity] Can you? You'll feel that when
I've gone.
They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and
FREDA, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them.
MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Monsieur le taureau!
She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through,
leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and
see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand.
BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept all night.
FREDA. No?
BILL. Have you been thinking it over?
[FREDA gives a bitter little laugh.]
BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't let
you suffer. I swear I won't.
FREDA. That will be clever.
BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess.
FREDA. I shall be--all--right, thank you.
BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuse
me--say something! Don't look like that!
FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me?
BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your hands.
She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her
face.
BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then as
she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him]
There, there!
There is a click of a door handle. They start away from each
other, and see LADY CHESHIRE regarding them.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon.
She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but
suddenly turning, stands, with lips pressed together, waiting.
LADY CHESHIRE. Yes?
FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his
mother.
BILL. Don't say anything against her!
LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails--then to FREDA]
Please-go!
BILL. [Taking FREDA's arm] No.
LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation, herself moves
towards the door.
BILL. Stop, mother!
LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not.
BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though from a blow] It's
a d---d shame!
LADY CHESHIRE. It is.
BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engaged
to be married to her.
[FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away.]
LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I don't think
I--quite--understand.
BILL. [With the brutality of his mortification] What I said was
plain enough.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill!
BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her.
LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true?
[FREDA gulps and remains silent.]
BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me, mother.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table] Give me a
chair, please. [BILL gives her a chair.]
LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too.
FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now!
BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me.
LADY CHESHIRE. When?
BILL. In the summer.
LADY CHESHIRE. Ah!
BILL. It wasn't her fault.
LADY CHESHIRE. No?
BILL. [With a sort of menace] Mother!
LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You say
that you--are engaged?
BILL. Yes.
LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an engagement have occurred
to you, I suppose? [With a sudden change of tone] Bill! what does it
mean?
BILL. If you think she's trapped me into this----
LADY CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she has been trapped.
I think nothing. I understand nothing.
BILL. [Grimly] Good!
LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this-engagement lasted?
BILL. [After a silence] Two months.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is-this is quite impossible.
BILL. You'll find it isn't.
LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery.
BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in there, Freda.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her?
FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob.
BILL. Of course I am.
FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE rises suddenly,
forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean? [BILL,
looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not in
love with her now. It's no good telling me you are.
BILL. I am.
LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were.
BILL. She's in love with me.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so.
BILL. I mean to see that nobody runs her down.
LADY CHESHIRE. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, or mean woman?
BILL. Mother!
LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life--and--your father's--and--all of
us. I want to understand--I must understand. Have you realised what
an awful thins this would be for us all? It's quite impossible that
it should go on.
BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She and
I'll take good care not to be in the way.
LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything!
BILL. I have.
LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill.
BILL. What's the good of these questions?
LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away--I see!
BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're engaged, we shall
be married quietly, and--and--go to Canada.
LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that to tell you'd be in
love with her now.
BILL. I've told you that I am.
LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I know--I know
there's more behind.
BILL. There--is--nothing.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your love
for her has been just what it might have been for a lady?
BILL. [Bitterly] Why not?
LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so as a rule.
BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word against
Freda. This isn't the moment to begin, please.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end in wretchedness.
You haven't a taste or tradition in common. You don't know what
marriage is. Day after day, year after year. It's no use being
sentimental--for people brought up as we are to have different
manners is worse than to have different souls. Besides, it's
poverty. Your father will never forgive you, and I've practically
nothing. What can you do? You have no profession. How are you
going to stand it; with a woman who--? It's the little things.
BILL. I know all that, thanks.
LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been through it. Marriage
is hard enough when people are of the same class. [With a sudden
movement towards him] Oh! my dear-before it's too late!
BILL. [After a struggle] It's no good.
LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery.
BILL. Leave that to me, please.
LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence] Only the very
finest can do such things. And you don't even know what trouble's
like.
BILL. Drop it, please, mother.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your
own free will?
BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any more.
[He goes out into the workroom.]
LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do?
In her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the
workroom door, and opens it.
LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda.
After a seconds pause, FREDA, white and trembling, appears in
the doorway, followed by BILL.
LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to her alone.
BILL, does not move.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us.
BILL hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches FREDA's
arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. There
is silence.
LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about?
FREDA. I don't know, my lady.
LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again,
whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there]
I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry.
But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to her
breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things.
That's natural. But it's not only you is it? Does any one guess?
FREDA. No.
LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head] There's
nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a
man's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me!
FREDA. I can't.
LADY CHESHIRE. Come!
FREDA. I--won't.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give him away? Both of
you the same. What's the use of that with me? Look at me! Wasn't
he with you when you went for your holiday this summer?
FREDA. He's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman.
LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man you mean!
FREDA. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so.
LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the
room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA.
LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you. It's simple
madness! It can't, and shan't go on.
FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I am--somebody.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of rights with a
sudden steeliness] Does he love you now?
FREDA. That's not fair--it's not fair.
LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. If
you've lost him it's been your own fault.
FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking down, and speaking rapidly] Listen to me.
I love my son, but I know him--I know all his kind of man. I've
lived with one for thirty years. I know the way their senses work.
When they want a thing they must have it, and then--they're sorry.
FREDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry.
LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you both over
everything?.... You know it isn't.
FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that.
LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there'd be no trouble before
either of you. You'll make him hate you.
FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him happy--out there.
LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to say all the things
you must know. I only ask you to try and put yourself in our
position.
FREDA. Ah, yes!
LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purely
selfish.
FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my position?
LADY CHESHIRE. What!
FREDA. Yes. Just like Rose.
LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh!
There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks
straight into FREDA's eyes.
FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes--it's the truth. [Then to Bill
who has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant to
tell.
BILL. Well, are you satisfied?
LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible!
BILL. The Governor had better know.
LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! no; not yet!
BILL. Waiting won't cure it!
The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRISTINE and DOT run
in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that
something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his
mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom.
LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window.
JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter?
DOT. Shut up!
SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling
"Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, passing her handkerchief over her
face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress:
well-weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops.
SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially]
Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved right
hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you? It's a bit stiff!
FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE and the girls watching
in hypnotic silence.
SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to be
first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse
--best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish
you were cumin' out, Joan.
He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the
chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the
workroom.
CHRISTINE. Mother! What----?
But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter,
and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is
heard.
JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started--! Chris! What is
it? Dot?
DOT. Bill, and her!
JOAN. But what?
DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this.
JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit.
DOT. I think not.
JOAN. Chris?
CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us.
JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good.
DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water-kitten!
CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Runny hadn't
gone.
JOAN. Shall I fetch John?
DOT. John!
CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows.
JOAN. He went out with Studdenham.
DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and
humbug! That awful old man!
JOAN. Dot!
CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that!
DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven
help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a German
regiment than a woman.
JOAN. Dot, you're awful.
DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet!
CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women!
DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of these
terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking for
John? No good, my dear; lath and plaster.
JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's Mabel!
DOT. Heavens, and the waters under the earth!
CHRISTINE. If we only knew!
MABEL comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes
fixed on their books.
MABEL. The silent company.
DOT. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for to-day.
MABEL. What's the matter?
CHRISTINE. Oh! nothing.
DOT. Something's happened.
MABEL. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad enough for me to
go?
CHRISTINE. Oh! no, Mabel!
DOT. [Sardonically] I should think very likely.
While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the
workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and
looks stolidly at the four girls.
BILL. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lanfarne, I'm engaged to
my mother's maid.
No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL LANFARNE goes towards
him, holding out her hand. BILL does not take her hand, but
bows. Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces MABEL goes
out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at
their brother.
BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know.
[He, too, goes out into the corridor.]
CHRISTINE. Great heavens!
JOAN. How awful!
CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as that.
JOAN. Oh! Chris! Something must be done!
DOT. [Suddenly to herself] Ha! When Father went up to have his
glove buttoned!
There is a sound, JACKSON has came in from the corridor.
JACKSON. [To Dot] If you please, Miss, Studdenham's brought up the
other two pups. He's just outside. Will you kindly take a look at
them, he says?
There is silence.
DOT. [Suddenly] We can't.
CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson.
JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, Mm?
DOT shakes her head violently. But STUDDENHAM is seen already
standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either
side-pocket. He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting behind
him.
STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes the
right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a, proper greedy
one--takes after his father.
The girls stare at him in silence.
DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see.
STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet.
CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course.
STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's got
a white chest; she's a lady.
[He protrudes the left-hand pocket.]
DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully.
STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman.
You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket]
My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do
without.
DOT. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her.
STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He
turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle
out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON.]
CHRISTINE. How ghastly!
DOT. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!"
[She gives vent to a short sharp laugh.]
The curtain falls.
ACT III
It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the
smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old
steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high
ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are
not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is
burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the
billiard-room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and
doom; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with
commiseration.
BILL. What's the time?
HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any
consolation. Always a tough meet--[softly] as the tiger said when he
ate the man.
BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of
me, Harold.
HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any
better by marrying her?
[Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.]
BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things.
HAROLD. No, old man.
BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think
it!
HAROLD. My dear old chap!
BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I
suppose--one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so
high. I see it now that--I've got over the attack.
HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do
apply your reason, old boy.
There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen.
BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the
thing.
HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not!
BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leave
her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd
soon see!
HAROLD. Poor old chap!
BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a
soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I
can't think. I never meant----
HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your
head, old man!
BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the
country. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who's
that knocking the balls about?
HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases.]
BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that!
As LATTER appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out.
LATTER. Was that Bill?
HAROLD. Yes.
LATTER. Well?
HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool to
him. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! What
price your argument with Runny now? Well, it's not too late for you
luckily.
LATTER. What do you mean?
HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family!
LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold.
HAROLD. Good!
LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters.
HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poor
mother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn't
done, pretty mess I shall be in.
LATTER. How?
HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all
come to me.
LATTER. Oh!
HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral!
Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop.
LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's behaved
disgracefully.
HAROLD. [Warningly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'd
never dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means.
LATTER. Perfectly disgusting!
HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you
know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard.
LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's
an idiot, or worse.
HAROLD. H'm! [With a grin] You're not allowed tobacco. In the
good old days no one would hive thought anything of this. My
great-grandfather----
LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather.
HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been
through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because
Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up.
LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the beginning?
HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this
happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he--? Why didn't
she--? What's to be done--that's the point!
LATTER. Of course he'll have to----.
HAROLD. Ha!
LATTER. What do you mean by--that?
HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll
be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything!
Now don't you?
LATTER. The whole thing is--is most unfortunate.
HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was!
As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH Come in from the billiard-room.
He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally
weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and
sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come
stealing in.
CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny.
JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful.
HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man?
KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes.
DOT. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of
discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram.
HAROLD. Phew!
DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened.
HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny.
KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing
his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away with him into the
billiard-room.
KEITH. Dot?
DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel.
KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since?
DOT. Yes.
HAROLD. Well?
DOT. She's just sitting there.
CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing.
DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could only
feel----!
KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us.
DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina,
and some one jigging it!
They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a
tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence
the FOOTMAN puts the tray down.
HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH
nods] What point?
KEITH. Eight mile.
FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir?
KEITH. No, thanks, Charles!
In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look
after him.
HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it!
KEITH. What's our line of country to be?
CHRISTINE. All depends on father.
KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it
strikes me.
CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course.
KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons
on Sunday forbids son to----
CHRISTINE, Ronny!
KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's
got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take
up that position.
DOT. Awfully funny!
CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot?
DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other!
CHRISTINE. Rubbish!
HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill.
KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help
the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a----
[He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.]
HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you
girls, I should think.
CHRISTINE and DOT. Of course not!
KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it?
DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady as
most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada? It's what
he's really fit for.
HAROLD. Steady on, Dot!
DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if
he stays here--jolly for the country!
CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill.
DOT. Me cynical!
CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny!
KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl.
DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her!
HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor
old Dad!
CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold!
DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations by
marriage!
KEITH. Thanks!
CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous--monstrous! It's fantastic!
HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's
in!
They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE
coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise
and DOT puts an arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his
chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back.
LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny!
[She sits down.]
DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur?
LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear!
DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling!
LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny?
KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straight
line.
LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse?
KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting
his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib!
CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father? Ronny thinks it
all depends on her. Can't you use your influence? [LADY CHESHIRE
shakes her head.]
CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate.
DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn't
beg her to let us off!
CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart,
mother?
DOT. Leave mother alone!
CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never.
DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect?
CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh!
mother do speak to her! You know it'll be misery for both of them.
[LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her
head.]
CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake?
DOT. Chris!
CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! We
ought all to go on our knees to him.
LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now.
HAROLD. Poor old Bill!
CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! That wretched
girl!
LADY CHESHIRE. Chris!
CHRISTINE. There are limits!
LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control.
CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall--Something must be
done! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he gets
his head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us!
LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do.
CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if
you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't
affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Do
back me up, all of you! It's the only way!
Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been
urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who
looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical
pain.
CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother!
LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room
door, listening. They all follow her eyes. She sits down
again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters.
His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set.
He walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands
looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE
steals away.
LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done?
SIR WILLIAM. You there!
LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense!
SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had a
blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard he would not be
what you call a fool.
SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Very
well!
LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too
terrible.
SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear.
[She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire.]
SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a
thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands
and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be.
Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill!
SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've known
this--piece of news since this morning. I've known it ten minutes.
Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the
girl?
LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom.
SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is he
about?
LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him?
SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire
and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth
century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh
at everything--they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, and
I don't .... Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! I
don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm
not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With
sudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad
enough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d Socialists and
Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the
bowels to sees a--tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and
me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the
children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's
past--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. They're--they're
himself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on.
LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it?
SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it.
LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop.
SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made.
LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law!
SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to]
You're thinking of young--young----[Shortly] I don't see the
connection.
LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do
what's loyal--and we--his father and mother----!
SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I
must think this out.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that--it doesn't
help.
SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of
the house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindness
from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and
decency--she lured him on, I haven't a doubt!
LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose.
SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the
deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Go
out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to
any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of
business nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to that
other matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--Why, my own
grandfather----!
LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help?
SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence-suddenly] You must go to
the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you.
LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her--I said
all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill.
SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [Then
as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress.] If he marries her, I've
done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The
title--I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes?
LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden fire] You've no right to put such an
alternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent this
marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees.
SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no
consideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d---d!
LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect....
SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother!
LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't
get it out.
SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the only
chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away.]
SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've
never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn
you--I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself.
With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the
corridor.
SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day!
He takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks
with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace.
While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock.
SIR WILLIAM. Come in!
FREDA enters from the corridor.
SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in order
that--[pointing to chair]--You may sit down.
But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit
down.
SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business.
FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William.
SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before
him] I--er--are you attached to my son?
FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes.
SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turns
away from her and speaks to the fire.] I sent for you--to--ask--
[quickly] How old are you?
FREDA. Twenty-two.
SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such a
mad idea as a marriage?
FREDA. I don't expect anything.
SIR WILLIAM. You know--you haven't earned the right to be considered.
FREDA. Not yet!
SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now
brace yourself up, and listen to me!
She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at
her; and his glance gradually wavers.
SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like a
scamp.
FREDA. Oh! no!
SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same, time--What
made you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know.
FREDA. No.
SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expect
me to--It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is?
FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady.
SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to--to put it to
you--as a--as a--what! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless,
looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door]
I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, and
wait!
LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes
into the billiard-room to wait.
SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Your
mother and I have spoken of this--calamity. I imagine that even you
have some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell
you this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll
receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only due
to the position our family has always held here. Your brother will
take your place. We shall--get on as best we can without you. [There
is a dead silence till he adds sharply] Well!
BILL. I shall marry her.
LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love-without anything!
BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man,
sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter
in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head
yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns
round to go out] Let the d---d thing off!
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill!
BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch.
SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted to
persuade you to.
BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could
have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you
wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work,
that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences.
SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position?
BILK. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it.
SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have none--not the
faintest, brought up as you've been.
BILL. I didn't bring myself up.
SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son
responds] You--ungrateful young dog!
LADY CHESHIRE. How can you--both?
[They drop their eyes, and stand silent.]
SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am speaking under the
stress of very great pain--some consideration is due to me. This is
a disaster which I never expected to have to face. It is a matter
which I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down
to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortune
all my life to believe in our position here--to believe that we
counted for something--that the country wanted us. I have tried to
do my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone--
smoke--gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To countenance
this marriage would be unnatural.
BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this--I don't see any
other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for
you----
He stops, seeing that JACKSON has route in, and is standing
there waiting.
JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William? It's about
young Dunning.
After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler
withdraws.
BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told.
SIR WILLIAM. He shall be.
STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a
comprehensive gesture.
STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir William!
STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the
proper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up
next Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in
turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Beg
pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf!
BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you,
Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married at
once.
STUDDENHAM. I--don't--understand you--sir.
BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it
straight.
STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say--my daughter?
SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Studdenham. It's a
thunderbolt--young Dunning's case over again.
STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's--You've--! I must see my
daughter. Have the goodness to send for her, m'lady.
LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come
here, please."
STUDDENHAM. [TO SIR WILLIAM] YOU tell me that my daughter's in the
position of that girl owing to your son? Men ha' been shot for less.
BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome.
STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this
sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years,
Sir William; but this is man to man--this is!
SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham.
STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No--'twouldn't be
very easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage?
SIR WILLIAM. You did.
STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well--that's something! [Moving his
hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights
o' this.
SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you,
Studdenham.
Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with
his hands.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of horror] Don't,
Studdenham! Please!
STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady?
LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your--your--hands.
While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing
in the doorway, like a black ghost.
STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her
father] When did you start this?
FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father.
LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her!
STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from side to side as if
pain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA,
but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about--what's come
to you?
FREDA. Last night.
STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young--! [He makes a
convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose
grip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] I want to
clear me mind a bit--I don't see it plain at all. [Without looking
at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage?
BILL. I've made it, I stick to it.
STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the
pith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William?
SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you.
STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady?
LADY CHESHIRE is silent.
STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was--was good enough for any man.
It's not for him that's--that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] You
hear the handsome offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistens
her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak a
word, we won't get much forrarder. I'd like for you to say what's in
your mind, Sir William.
SIR WILLIAM. I--If my son marries her he'll have to make his own
way.
STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to that.
SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studdenham. It appears to
rest with your daughter. [He suddenly takes out his handkerchief,
and puts it to his forehead] Infernal fires they make up here!
LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intense
cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering.
STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for.
[To FREDA] Speak up, now.
FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily
raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY
CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if
she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL,
standing rigid, with his jaw set.
FREDA. I want--[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns
from him] No!
SIR WILLIAM. Ah!
At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have
been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all
his emotion turned into sheer angry pride.
STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you!
She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha'
slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have
no charity marriage in my family.
SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham!
STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months,
as a blind man can see by the looks of him--she's not for him!
BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her.
STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks
around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since
the world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away!
Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door.
SIR WILLIAM. D---n 'it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something!
STUDDENHAM. [Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of
smiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things that
can't be undone!
He follows FREDA Out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S Calm
gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as
though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following
FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY
CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the
billiard-room is opened, and DOT appears. With a glance round,
she crosses quickly to her mother.
DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almost
whispering] Where's Freda? Is it--Has she really had the pluck?
LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes," goes out into the
billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing
there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her
father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying
smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders.
The curtain falls.
THE LITTLE DREAM
An Allegory in six scenes
CHARACTERS
SEELCHEN, a mountain girl
LAMOND, a climber
FELSMAN, a glide
CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM
THE GREAT HORN |
THE COW HORN | mountains
THE WINE HORN |
THE EDELWEISS |
THE ALPENROSE | flowers
THE GENTIAN |
THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION |
VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM
COWBELLS
MOUNTAIN AIR
FAR VIEW OF ITALY
DISTANT FLUME OF STEAM
THINGS IN BOOKS
MOTH CHILDREN
THREE DANCING YOUTHS
THREE DANCING GIRLS
THE FORMS OF WORKERS
THE FORMS OF WHAT IS MADE BY WORK
DEATH BY SLUMBER
DEATH BY DROWNING
FLOWER CHILDREN
GOATHERD
GOAT BOYS
GOAT GOD
THE FORMS OF SLEEP
SCENE I
It is just after sunset of an August evening. The scene is a
room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches.
and a low broad window seat. Through this window three rocky
peaks are seen by the light of a moon which is slowly whitening
the last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. SEELCHEN, a
mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and
putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and
glasses. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice.
square-cut at the neck and partly filled in with a gay
handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the
alpen-rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster
beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened.
white linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn
skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are
crossed, and turned round her head. As she puts away the last
bowl, there is a knock; and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is
young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and
carries a plaid, a ruck-sack, and an ice-axe.
LAMOND. Good evening!
SEELCHEN. Good evening, gentle Sir!
LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I fear.
SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here?
LAMOND. Please.
SEELCHEN. All the beds are full--it is a pity. I will call Mother.
LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at sunrise.
SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is impossible.
LAMOND. I am going to try that.
SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow Horn.
LAMOND. I have climbed them.
SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous--it is perhaps--death.
LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance.
SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is only
Mans Felsman.
LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman?
SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with admiration] Are you
that Herr Lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year?
LAMOND. All but that big fellow.
SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father's
foot?
LAMOND. Ah! no. I must go back home to-morrow.
SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry.
LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas!
SEELCHEN. Are you from London? Is it very big?
LAMOND. Six million souls.
SEELCHEN. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen Cortina twice.
LAMOND. Do you live here all the year?
SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley.
LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world?
SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls softly] Hans!
[Then pointing to another door] There are seven German gentlemen
asleep in there!
LAMOND. Oh God!
SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sunrise. [She picks up
a little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have read
several books.
LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry
here, and dream dreams, among your mountains?
SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See! It is the full moon.
While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters
a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden.
SEELCHEN. Hans!
FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me?
SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him]
It is the celebrated London one.
FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible.
LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman?
FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn.
SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years!
LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I
sleep here?
SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps--
[She runs out up some stairs]
FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on
the window seat] So!
As he goes out into the air. SEELCHEN comes slipping in again
with a lighted candle.
SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you.
LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right.
SEELCHEN. To please me!
LAMOND. May I ask your name?
SEELCHEN. Seelchen.
LAMOND. Little soul, that means--doesn't it? To please you I would
sleep with seven German gentlemen.
SEELCHEN. Oh! no; it is not necessary.
LAMOND. [With. a grave bow] At your service, then.
[He prepares to go]
SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World, where you come
from?
LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would be
there.
SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me but I am always
here.
LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns.
SEELCHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly] In the towns
there are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and--dancing,
and--churches--and trains--and all the things in books--and--
LAMOND. Misery.
SEELCHEN. But there is life.
LAMOND. And there is death.
SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back?
LAMOND. No.
SEELCHEN. You have all the world; and I have nothing.
LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains.
SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread.
LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat you!
SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big wants--like the cheese
with holes.
LAMOND. I shall come again.
SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains left to climb. And
if it is not exciting, you do not care.
LAMOND. O wise little soul!
SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always aching.
LAMOND. For the moon?
SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will
remember?
LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world so
sweet as this.
SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself.
LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night?
She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and,
suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away.
LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul.
SEELCHEN. That's all right!
LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Goodnight!
SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night!
FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold--it
will be fine.
LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits
for him to pass.
SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. I
thought.
He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and
kisses her hungrily.
SEELCHEN. Art thou angry?
He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner
room.
SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in
full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her, she
snuggles doom on the window seat.
SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me--both. [She sleeps]
The scene falls quite dark
SCENE II
The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN is still
lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and
hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep
for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has
vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains
veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. There, as the peaks
of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces.
SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces!
The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth.
The face of THE COW HORN is that of a mountain shepherd.
solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard.
Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high.
beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx,
serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks.
above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little
heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUNTAIN
DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of
their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE
FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring.
All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky.
EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you?
Ah! ha!
GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging
enviously] Oo-oo-oo!
From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS
and MOUNTAIN AIR:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF
ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS:
"I am Italy! Italy!"
"See me--steam in the distance!"
"O remember the things in books!"
And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS
ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a
sighing:
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as
of one unaccustomed.
THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am
silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and
the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes.
love me alone!
SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman
and the mountains. It is the half of my heart!
THE FLOWERS laugh happily.
THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows.
My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The
lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running
of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood
hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity.
SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong!
The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me
under the stars!
SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid.
And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's
voice.
THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the
streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the
chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my
incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and
passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of
lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves.
and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in
the sunshine.
THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry:
"We know them!"
THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of
pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths
of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little
soul, you starve and die,
SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of
the Town. It pulls my heart.
THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your
meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drink
the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I never
dull!
The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN
BOOKS are heard calling out together:
"I am Italy, Italy!"
"See me--steam in the distance!"
"O remember, remember!"
THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours.
I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart!
SEELCHEN. He is honey!
THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry:
"Bitter! Bitter!"
THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal
air.
The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
And THE FLOWERS laugh happily.
THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake
you!
The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM and THINGS IN
BOOKS chant softly:
"I am Italy! Italy!"
"See me--steam in the distance!"
"O remember, remember!"
And THE FLOWERS moan.
SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn!
THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets.
and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the
thistle-down.
M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster!
THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea.
GENTIAN. My blue is deeper!
THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes.
ALPENROSE. I can blush redder!
THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! Silk! Velvet!
EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet!
THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags!
THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none.
SEELCHEN. He has all things.
THE COW HORN. Mine are the clouds with the dark silvered wings; mine
are the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler than
pearls. Away from my breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop,
little soul.
THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance!
THE FLOWERS ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry:
"We too, smell sweet."
But the voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS
IN BOOKS cry out:
"I am Italy! Italy!"
"See me--steam in the distance!"
"O remember! remember!"
SEELCHEN. [Distracted] Oh! it is hard!
THE COW HORN. I will never desert thee.
THE WINE HORN. A hundred times I will desert you, a hundred times
come back, and kiss you.
SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Peace for my heart!
THE COW HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme.
THE FLOWERS laugh happily.
THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers.
THE FLOWERS moan.
THE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine.
THE COW HORN. I will give thee new milk.
THE WINE HORN. Hear my song!
From far away comes the sound as of mandolins.
SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart--it is leaving me!
THE COW HORN. Hear my song!
From the distance floats the piping of a Shepherd's reed.
SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The piping! Ah!
THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen!
THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen!
THE COW HORN. I give thee certainty!
THE WINE HORN. I give you chance!
THE COW HORN. I give thee peace.
THE WINE HORN. I give you change.
THE COW HORN. I give thee stillness.
THE WINE HORN. I give you voice.
THE COW HORN. I give thee one love.
THE WINE HORN. I give you many.
SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both--I
will love!
And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks.
THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shalt love, little soul! Thou shalt
lie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities with
Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the
mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings.
small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem
as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the
other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in
turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a
tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half
courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change.
Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thou
pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me at
last, my little soul!
THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out.
SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight
and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep.
SCENE III
The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with her
hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane
tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of
an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon.
Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the
face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and
singing:
"Little star soul
Through the frost fields of night
Roaming alone, disconsolate--
From out the cold
I call thee in
Striking my dark mandolin
Beneath this moon of gold."
From the Inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of
dancing.
SEELCHEN: [Whispering] It is the big world!
The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings On:
"Pretty grey moth,
Where the strange candles shine,
Seeking for warmth, so desperate--
Ah! fluttering dove
I bid thee win
Striking my dark mandolin
The crimson flame of love."
SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing!
As SHE speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and
fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then
wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward.
SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings are
windy.
The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on;
"Lips of my song,
To the white maiden's heart
Go ye, and whisper, passionate.
These words that burn
'O listening one!
Love that flieth past is gone
Nor ever may return!'"
SEELCHEN runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has
become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children
--but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn stands
LAMOND in a dark cloak.
SEELCHEN. It is you!
LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out his
arms to her]
SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe?
LAMOND. What is safety? Are you safe in your mountains?
SEELCHEN. Where am I, here?
LAMOND. The Town.
Smiling, he points to the doorway. And silent as shadows there
come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. The
first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first
youth in black velvet. The second girl is in rags, and a shawl;
and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance
gravely, each couple as if in a world apart.
SEELCHEN. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance together. Do they
never change partners?
LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor.
But see!
A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs.
a flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the
youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other.
but the other girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious
medley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the
first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from
each other as before.
SEELCHEN. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like that?
The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He
strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound
the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the
couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown
dark.
SEELCHEN. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let me see.
LAMOND. Will you not come, then, little soul?
SEELCHEN. Always to dance?
LAMOND: Not so!
THE SHUTTERS of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. In a
lighted room on one aide of the Inn are seen two pale men and a
woman, amongst many clicking machines. On the other side of the
Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half
clothed, making chains.
SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look
--all! What are they making?
In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is
seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in
gold-cloth studded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face,
holding in one hand a glass of golden wine.
SEELCHEN. It is beautiful. What is it?
LAMOND. Luxury.
SEELCHEN. What is it standing on? I cannot see.
Unseen, THE WINE HORN'S mandolin twangs out.
LAMOND. For that do not look, little soul.
SEELCHEN. Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all they
make here with their sadness?
But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the
houses; the door of the Inn grows dark.
LAMOND. What is it, then, you would have? Is it learning? There
are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars!
[But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is religion so deep that no man
knows what it means. [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is
religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We have
everything.
SEELCHEN. Is God here?
LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes
her head] What then do you want?
SEELCHEN. Life.
The mandolin twangs out.
LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life.
SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love.
LAMOND. When a feather dies, is it not loving the wind--the unknown?
When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. If
darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To live
is to love, to love is to live-seeking for wonder. [And as she draws
nearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the
little grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown--again
you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand--you must
crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not
there--for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its
wings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, your
cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting--Ah! little
heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes--there it
is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will
reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall
you grasp that wanton thing--but life shall be lovely. [His voice
dies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms]
SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come.
LAMOND. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me!
SEELCHEN. I love!
The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all
glamorous; and they pass through. Illumined by the glimmer of
the lamp the Youth of THE WINE Hour is seen again. And slowly
to the chords of his mandolin he begins to sing:
"The windy hours through darkness fly
Canst hear them little heart?
New loves are born, and old loves die,
And kissing lips must part.
"The dusky bees of passing years
Canst see them, soul of mine--
From flower and flower supping tears,
And pale sweet honey wine?
[His voice grown strange and passionate]
"O flame that treads the marsh of time.
Flitting for ever low.
Where, through the black enchanted slime.
We, desperate, following go
Untimely fire, we bid thee stay!
Into dark air above.
The golden gipsy thins away--
So has it been with love!"
While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. It falls
dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands.
But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp
goes out--THE WINE HORN becomes shadow. Then from the doorway
of the Inn, in the shrill grey light SEELCHEN comes forth. She
is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the
powdery whiteness of her face.
SEELCHEN. My heart is old.
But as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of
COWBELLS; and while she stands listening, LAMOND appears in the
doorway of the Inn.
LAMOND. Little soul!
SEELCHEN. You! Always you!
LAMOND. I have new wonders.
SEELCHEN. [Mournfully] No.
LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never the
same? It cannot be.
SEELCHEN. Listen!
The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again.
LAMOND. [Jealously] The music' of dull sleep! Has life, then, with
me been sorrow?
SEELCHEN. I do not regret.
LAMOND. Come!
SEELCHEN. [Pointing-to her breast] The bird is tired with flying.
[Touching her lips] The flowers have no dew.
LAMOND. Would you leave me?
SEELCHEN. See!
There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen
the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain
cloak.
LAMOND. What is it?
SEELCHEN. He!
LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you the
marvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life.
If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are
sweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning!
The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn come
forth the shadowy forms. DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING.
who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN.
stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away.
SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and sweet.
While she moves towards the Inn. LAMOND'S face becomes
transfigured with joy. But just as she reaches the doorway.
there is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and
the Shepherd of THE COW HORN sings:
"To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar
Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads
Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar,
And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds.
To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned
With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam;
To the silent sky, and the wistful sound
Of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!"
While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEELCHEN has turned.
with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of
death have vanished.
SEELCHEN. I come.
LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like a
gnat when the sun goes down? Without you I am nothing.
SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself] Poor heart--I am gone!
LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his cloak].
Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, there is
blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there
rises a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, and Flower
Bells, and Pipes.
SCENE IV
The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn.
SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but
blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a
low rock sits a brown faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the
four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white.
and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing.
as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and
each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts
them to her lips and eyes.
SEELCHEN. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] Goatherd!
But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away he has
vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The
veils of mist are rising.
SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the
rock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with his arms folded] Thou!
FELSMAN. So thou hast come--like a sick heifer to be healed. Was it
good in the Town--that kept thee so long?
SEELCHEN. I do not regret.
FELSMAN. Why then return?
SEELCHEN. I was tired.
FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me!
SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep me?
FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus.
SEELCHEN. I have known Change--I am no timid maid.
FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow
--thou art white-faced.
SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou here that shall keep
me?
FELSMAN. The sun.
SEELCHEN. To burn me.
FELSMAN. The air.
There is a faint wailing of wind.
SEELCHEN. To freeze me.
FELSMAN. The silence.
The noise of the wind dies away.
SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely.
FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee.
And to a ringing of their bells. THE FLOWERS come dancing;
till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling
asleep.
SEELCHEN. See! Even they grow sleepy here!
FELSMAN. I will call the goats to wake them.
THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on his rock and
piping. And there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked
Boys, with Goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of
The Sleeping Flowers; and THE FLOWERS wake, spring up, and fly.
Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and THE
GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his
rock.
FELSMAN. Love me!
SEELCHEN. Thou art rude!
FELSMAN. Love me!
SEELCHEN. Thou art grim!
FELSMAN. Aye. I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice.
[Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawn
to the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] And
the wings of the birds shall be still.
SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see
the wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are they
always fierce?
FELSMAN. Never--to look on thee, my flower.
SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluck
flowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD is
lying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But
THE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue.
[Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer me
here.
FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one?
SEELCHEN. Thou?
[The scene darkens with evening]
See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already.
There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb
garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her.
SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep!
Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her
swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It
is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly
grown bright. Then on his rock, to a faint gaping THE GOATHERD
sings:
"My goat, my little speckled one.
My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling.
Let moon and wind and golden sun
And stars beyond all telling
Make, every day, a sweeter grass.
And multiply thy leaping!
And may the mountain foxes pass
And never scent thee sleeping!
Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far.
And let me find sweet water!
No hawk nor udder-seeking jar
Come near thee, little daughter!
May fiery rocks defend, at noon,
Thy tender feet from slipping!
Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon--
Great Master, Goat-God--skipping!"
There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a
long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon
fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the
false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of
the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the
rock stands the Shepherd of THE COW HORN in his dock.
SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit is hungry. [Then as
she sees the Shepherd of THE COW HORN standing there] I know thee
now--Life of the earth--the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the
taste of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and gone by.
[She moves away]
FELSMAN. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go?
SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world.
FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me!
[But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against
solidity]
SEELCHEN. Friend! The time is on me.
FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I too dull?
SEELCHEN. I do not regret.
The Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen suddenly standing opposite
the motionless Shepherd of THE COW HORN; and his mandolin twangs
out.
FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt
go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see.
SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward.
FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without thee
love is dead, and I must die.
SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone.
FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold.
At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE COW HORN stretches
forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE
HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving.
SEELCHEN. Companions. I must go. In a moment it will be dawn.
In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces.
The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark.
SCENE V
Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE
GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either aide of
that path of light, like shadows. THE COW HORN and THE WINE
HORN stand with cloaked heads.
SEELCHEN. Great One! I come!
The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a far-away voice, growing,
with the light, clearer and stronger.
Wandering flame, thou restless fever
Burning all things, regretting none;
The winds of fate are stilled for ever--
Thy little generous life is done.
And all its wistful wonderings cease!
Thou traveller to the tideless sea,
Where light and dark, and change and peace,
Are One--Come, little soul, to MYSTERY!
SEELCHEN falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The
glow slowly fades till the scene is black.
SCENE VI
Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn
filtering through the window of the mountain hut. LAMOND and FELSMAN
are seen standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on the
window seat.
FELSMAN. [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a moment it will be
dawn.
She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring.
LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming.
FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face.
Then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she
speaks, pass out.
SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with
ecstasy] Great One. I come! [Waking, she looks around, and
struggles to her feet] My little dream!
Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky.
There is a sound of goat-bells passing.
The curtain falls.
JUSTICE
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
JAMES HOW, solicitor
WALTER HOW, solicitor
ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk
WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk
SWEEDLE, their office-boy
WISTER, a detective
COWLEY, a cashier
MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge
HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate
HECTOR FROME, a young advocate
CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor
THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain
EDWARD CLEMENT, a prison doctor
WOODER, a chief warder
MOANEY, convict
CLIFTON, convict
O'CLEARY, convict
RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman
A NUMBER OF BARRISTERS, SOLICITERS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS,
JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS
TIME: The Present.
ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July.
ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October.
ACT III. A prison. December.
SCENE I. The Governor's office.
SCENE II. A corridor.
SCENE III. A cell.
ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning.
March, two years later.
CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION
AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910
James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE
Walter How MR. CHARLES MAUDE
Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN
Falder MR. DENNIS EADIE
The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE
The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER
The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON
The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT
The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE
The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT
The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY
The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN
The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSON
Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD
Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN
Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIE
O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE
Ruth Honeywill Miss EDYTH OLIVE
ACT I
The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of James
and Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned,
furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with
tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them
are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two
doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the
managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass;
and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be
seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of
the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to
the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the
partners' room.
The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up
figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself.
He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles; rather short, with a
bald head, and an honest, pugdog face. He is dressed in a
well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers.
COKESON. And five's twelve, and three--fifteen, nineteen,
twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one-and carry four. [He ticks the
page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen,
twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one.
He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and
SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him.
He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair.
COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one.
SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson.
COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine--and carry
two. Send him to Morris's. What name?
SWEEDLE. Honeywill.
COKESON. What's his business?
SWEEDLE. It's a woman.
COKESON. A lady?