Full text of "Representative one-act plays by British and Irish authors"

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THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA
RIVERSIDE

REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS
BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS

BY BRITISH AND IRISH

AUTHORS

SELECTED, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES^

BARRETT H. CLARK

N ON-REFE RT

aaWVAO-Q3S

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1921

Printed in the United States of America

PREFACE

The present is a companion volume to "Representative
One- Act Plays by American Authors", edited by Margaret
Gardner Mayorga and published in 1919. The book was
originally undertaken by Mr. Clayton Hamilton who, finding
himself unable to continue the work, turned it over to the
present editor.

It is the duty of the present editor to record — as editors
have before him recorded — that Barrie and Shaw must be
excluded from collections of this sort, for reasons which others
have euphemistically described as "limitations of copyright."
One-act plays of Barrie and Shaw would have been made an
integral part of this collection had the authors and their
publishers seen fit to cooperate on a basis similar to that
accepted by other authors and publishers; they did not,
and the reader is therefore asked to fill in the breach as best
he can.

To those who have understood the purpose of this book and
helped both the editor and the publisher to make it as truly
representative as possible, gratitude is hereby specifically
acknowledged. Henry Arthur Jones, Granville Barker,
Harold Brighouse, Lady Gregory, Alfred Sutro, Arnold
Bennett, Laurence Housman, Sir Arthur Pinero, Elizabeth
Baker, St. John Ervine, and Lord Dunsany have kindly
corrected lists of their plays and furnished valuable data.
Mr. E. M. Anderson, Mr. Harold Brighouse, and Mr.
Harold Veasey have spared no pains in revising lists and fur-
nishing data on the late Elizabeth Robins, Stanley Houghton,
and Oliphant Down, respectively. Mr. Clayton Hamilton's
assistance and advice on many matters and Mr. T. R.
O Edwards' cooperation in securing the rights of many English

*-• plays are thankfully acknowledged.
CO

CONTENTS

Preface

The One-act Play in England and Ireland .

The Widow of Wasdale Head. Sir Arthur Pinero

The Goal. Henry Arthur Jones ....

Salome. Oscar Wilde

The Man in the Stalls. Alfred Sutro

'Op-o'- Me- Thumb. Frederick Fenn and Richard Pryce

The Impertinence of the Creature. Cosmo Gordon
Lennox .....

The Stepmother. Arnold Bennett

Rococo. Granville Barker

James and John. Gilbert Cannan

The Snow Man. Laurence Housman

Fancy Free. Stanley Houghton .

Lonesome- like. Harold Brighouse

Miss Tassey. Elizabeth Baker

Makeshifts. Gertrude Robins

The Maker of Dreams. Oliphant Doivns .

The Land of Heart's Desire. William Butler Yeats

Riders to the Sea. J. M. Synge

Spreading the News. Lady Gregory .

The Magnanimous Lover. St. John G. Ervine .

The Golden Doom. Lord Dunsany

Bibliographical Notes .....

One-act Plays by English and Irish Dramatists

PAGE
V

107

131

161
175

197
229
247
265
283
305
323
345
367
391
409
431
455
473
476

THE ONE-ACT PLAY
IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND

DESPITE the many inducements and encouragements
now offered to the writer of one-act plays, I dare risk
the statement that in the British Isles (and even in America)
the one-act play occupies an anomalous position, and that
it has yet to be accepted as an altogether legitimate and
respectable form of drama. I am well aware that for a gen-
eration the Abbey Theater in Dublin and for many years
the Gaiety Theater in Manchester have each not only pro-
duced one-act plays of merit, they have practically created
"schools" of dramatists whose finest work is to be found in
the one-act form. Still, despite facts to which I am by
no means blind, I should like to record my impression that
the one-act play, throughout the English-speaking world, has
yet to win and hold its place in the public esteem.

The refutations to my statement are numerous and
weighty; this volume itself seems to belie my words: Synge
and Yeats, Barker and Ervine, Lady Gregory and Elizabeth
Robins are undoubtedly the products of theaters that have
made it a business to encourage the writing of one-act plays.
Suppose I put it differently.

In France, for instance, one may pass as an artist and a
gentleman as well as the author of a score of one-acters; in
Germany there are — or were — half a dozen reputable drama-
tists whose chief claim to celebrity rested upon one or two
volumes of one-act plays; in Spain and France there
are theaters where none but short plays are ever pro-
duced. In England and America I can think of no dramatist
whose fame rests entirely, or even principally, upon one-act

THE ONE-ACT PLAY

plays. Eugene O'Neill can scarcely be said to have "arrived"
until his first long play, "Beyond the Horizon", reached
Broadway; this in spite of his previous honorable record
as the author of a dozen short plays of unusual merit.

And you may cite Barrie, whose one-act plays at their
best are fully up to the standard of the long plays; but ask
yourself whether Barrie's fame rests upon "Rosalind" and
"Pantaloon" or upon "The Little Minister" and "The Ad-
mirable Crichton"? I shan't say that the public is right:
I express merely my opinion as to what it thinks — or did
think until recently.

The attitude of the public is rapidly changing; to-day the
one-act play has come almost to be accepted as an inde-
pendent art-form — by the general playgoing public, that is.
I am not here speaking of the Earnest Thinkers who build
Little Theaters; they are inclined to take the one-acter too
seriously, largely because it is an altogether easier form to
cope with than the long play, offering wider opportunity
to dabbling amateurs. The Earnest Thinkers, however, to
give them due credit, have undoubtedly opened the way for
a keener appreciation and more intelligent appraisal of the
form than was possible under the old system, where the
"curtain raiser" was usually no more than a by-product
written for the purpose of killing time.

Barrie and Synge and most of the dramatists who are
represented in the present volume deserve the highest praise
for bringing about the rehabilitation of the one-act form,
for it is to them that a growing respect for the neglected
one-acter is due. These men — and women — have taken
the single act and made of it an independent art- work;
they have not used it merely as a repository for discarded
scenes from long plays, or considered it as an entertainment
for the pit; they have deigned to study the form, and have
been rewarded by finding it a delightful and effective medium
for the expression of dramatic ideas quite as dignified if not
as full and plastic as the three-act or the four-act form.

Nowadays every aspiring dramatist is given an oppor-

THE ONE-ACT PLAY xi

tunity of entering the theater the easiest way: that is,
by writing a one-act play. That this has not always been
so is evident in the words of the veteran dramatist,
Henry Arthur Jones who, a few years ago, published in book
form three one-act plays with a preface of Shavian pro-
portions. No one speaks with greater authority than Mr.
Jones, whose plays are known to playgoers throughout the
Anglo-Saxon world. In the Preface to "The Theater of
Ideas" he says:

"It is a discouraging sign that neither on the English nor
American stage is there any demand for one-act plays.
These should be widely supported, as a valuable school for
young playwrights and young actors. 'The Goal' was
written in 1897, and I had to wait seventeen years before I
could get anything approaching a suitable representation."
"The Goal", you will remark in passing, was produced in
New York, by an American company. These lines were
written in 1915, when they had just ceased to convey the
whole truth. When "The Goal" was written, however, they
were lamentably true. That little play was an outcast, in
spite of the fact that Mr. Jones was known as the author of
"The Silver King" and "The Liars."

Now "The Goal" is a very ably constructed and effective
play, but I cannot help thinking that Mr. Jones would not
claim for it the same measure of artistic merit as, say, for
"The Liars" or "Dolly Reforming Herself." Is it not likely
that when he wrote "The Goal", without, as was doubtless
the case, any definite market in view for it, he regarded it
as a by-product, a dramatic incident which he could not at
the time work into another "Mrs. Dane's Defence"? Do I
presume when I say that "The Goal" and "Grace Mary"
and "Her Tongue", the three plays included in "The Theater
of Ideas", are the unconsidered trifles of a serious dramatist,
the products of his "lost moments"?

Perhaps Mr. Jones regards these plays as children that
have never had a chance, children for whom there was
no school? That he does not look upon them as fin-

xii THE ONE-ACT PLAY

ished masterpieces is evident from his remarks on "Her
Tongue", which "pleasantly occupied me during a leisure
week in Spain a few years ago." If Henry Arthur Jones
were beginning his career to-day, he would not, I venture to
believe, have thrown off a one-acter "during a leisure week
in Spain"; he would, I am sure, have burned the midnight
oil in London for six weeks and spent his vacation in Spain
studying Velasquez. He would also find a dozen theaters
ready to produce "The Goal", and not have to say of
another product of his leisure hours, "however unlike it may
be to Shakespearean tragedy" it would "probably be equally
successful in keeping people out of the theater."

In other words, Mr. Jones has never taken the one-act
form seriously. Why should he? He was not writing plays
for antiquity, but for living actors and managers who pay
for effective dramas. Mr. Jones' early contemporaries wrote
one-act plays, but of what sort? Curtain raisers for the
most part; and a curtain raiser is frankly a sop to the pit.
That Mr. Jones refused to write curtain raisers is readily
understood; that he refused to turn seriously to the writing
of one-act plays not designed to amuse the pit is likewise
conceivable. Mr. Jones' contribution to the modern drama
is sufficient as it is; we do not ask him to write one-
act masterpieces; he was ready to do so at one time, when
there was no one to use them; to-day he must be content
merely to observe radically different conditions, and recog-
nize the fact that times have changed.

If there were no manager to welcome the author of
"Michael and his Lost Angel" as a writer of one-act plays,
there was fortunately an Abbey Theater ready and eager to
demand of Synge his "Riders to the Sea." To the fact that
there was such a theater in Ireland we owe the masterpieces
of Yeats and Lady Gregory and the other Irish dramatists;
and it is by no means certain that had it not been for Miss
Horniman's Gaiety Theater, Stanley Houghton and Harold
Brighouse might have remained at their desks in business
offices.

THE ONE-ACT PLAY xiii

If, then, there is finally a place for the production of one-
act plays; if, as is evident, the one-act form is gradually
being accepted as a "respectable" dramatic medium, I am
convinced that the change is due largely to the fact that the
one-act form is being accorded the respect due it by the
dramatists themselves. And this in turn is due largely to
the fact that a place has been made for the form. The wide
gulf between literature and the drama has begun to be
bridged: Yeats and Synge and Barrie have seen to that.

Barrett H. Clark
June, 1921.

REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS
BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE

HEAD

SIR ARTHUR PIXERO

Arthur Wing Pinero — now Sir Arthur Pinero — was born
at London in 1855. Trained at first for the law, he remained
in his father's law office until he was nineteen, when he be-
came an actor with Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham, playing minor
roles for a year in Edinburgh. His next venture was in Liver-
pool. In 1876 he came to London and played at the Globe
Theater. He then entered Irving's company and remained
at the Lyceum for five years. During this time the young
actor had been writing plays, the first of which, "£200 a
Year", was produced at the Globe in 1877. " Daisy's Escape "
and "Bygones" were produced a short time after at the
Lyceum. The success of "Daisy's Escape" and the convic-
tion that he was not destined to become a great actor induced
him, according to one of his biographers, to abandon acting
and devote himself entirely to the writing of plays.

"The Squire" (1881) is the first of Pinero's plays that
showed promise. The following year William Archer wrote
of Pinero as "a thoughtful and conscientious writer with
artistic aims, if not yet with full command of his artistic
means." The "artistic means" rapidly developed, for in
the farces "Dandy Dick", "The Schoolmistress", and
''The Magistrate" the dramatist revealed extraordinary
skill and a natural bent for comedy. "Sweet Lavender"
and "The Profligate", plays of a more serious character,
followed in the late eighties. " The Second Mrs. Tanqueray "
was acclaimed in 1893 as the finest English play of the time.
It is indubitably one of the most effective plays of that
generation

4 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

Pinero is master of the dramatic medium he has chosen
to develop. That medium has been often criticized as formal,
old-fashioned, conventional ; the criticism is in some respects
not unwarranted, though the spirit in which it is made is rather
an indication of a desire to applaud other dramatists who
have departed from Pinero's methods than properly to judge
his achievements. Pinero is not a propagandist or a special
pleader; he has no aim other than to write effective plays
about the men and women of his time as he sees them.

Pinero's one-act plays are not an integral part of his
work, but they are interesting by-products. Written for
particular occasions, they reveal the skilled hand of an ac-
complished dramatist.

PLAYS

Plays marked with * are in one act only.

*£200aYear (1877)
*Two Can Play at That
Game (1877)

The Comet (1878)
♦Daisy's Escape (1879)
*Hester's Mystery (1880)
*Bygones (1880)

The Money-Spinner (1880)

Imprudence (1881)

The Squire (1881)

Girls and Boys (1882)

The Rector (1883)

Lords and Commons (1883)

The Rocket (1883)

Low Water (1884)

The Ironmaster (1884)
(Adaptation)

In Chancery (1884)

The Magistrate (1885)

Mayfair (1885)
(Adaptation)
The Schoolmistress (1886)
The Hobby-Horse (1886)
Dandy Dick (1887)
Sweet Lavender (1888)
The Weaker Sex (1889)
The Profligate (1889)
The Cabinet Minister

(1890)
Lady Bountiful (1891)
The Times (1891)
The Amazons (1893)
The Second Mrs. Tanque-

ray (1893)
The Notorious Mrs. Ebb-
smith (1895)
The Benefit of the Doubt
(1895)

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 5

The Princess and the But- The " Mind-the-Paint " Girl

terfly (1897) (1902)

Trelawney of the "Wells" *The Widow of Wasdale

(1898) Head (1912)

The Gay Lord Quex (1899) *Playgoers (1913)

Iris (1901) The Big Drum (1915)

Letty (1903) *Mr. Livermore's Dream
A Wife Without a Smile (1917)

(1904) The Freaks (1918)

His House in Order (1906) *Monica's Blue Boy (1918)
The Thunderbolt (1908) (Wordless play to music

Mid-Channel (1909) by Sir Frederic Cowen)

Preserving Mr. Panmure Quick Work (1919)

(1911)

"The Magistrate", "The Schoolmistress", "The Hobby-
Horse", "Sweet Lavender", "The Weaker Sex", "The
Profligate", "The Cabinet Minister", "Lady Bountiful",
"The Times", "The Amazons", "The Second Mrs. Tanque-
ray", "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith", "The Gay Lord
Quex", "Iris", "Letty", "A Wife Without a Smile", "His
House in Order", "The Thunderbolt", "Mid-Channel",
"Preserving Mr. Panmure", "The 'Mind-the-Paint' Girl",
and "The Big Drum" are published separately by Walter
H. Baker, Boston; "The Benefit of the Doubt" and "Tre-
lawney of the 'Wells'", by the Dramatic Publishing Com-
pany, Chicago; "The Money-Spinner", "The Squire", "The
Rocket", "In Chancery", "Hester's Mystery", "The
Princess and the Butterfly", and "Playgoers", by Samuel
French, New York.— "The Social Plays of Arthur Wing
Pinero", of which three volumes have already appeared,
under the editorship of Clayton Hamilton, includes "The
Second Mrs. Tanqueray", "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith",
"Letty", "Iris", "His House in Order", and "The Gay Lord
Quex." These volumes are published by E. P. Dutton and
Company, New York.

References: Hamilton Fyfe, "Arthur Wing Pinero",

6 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

Greening and Company, London; William Archer, "Real
Conversations", William Heinemann, London; Oscar Heer-
mann, "Living Dramatists", Brentano's, New York; George
Moore, "Impressions and Opinions", Brentano's; Cecil F.
Armstrong, "From Shakespeare to Shaw", Mills and Boon,
London; Clayton Hamilton, "Studies in Stagecraft", "The
Theory of the Theater", Henry Holt and Company, New
York, and "Introduction and Notes to The Social Plays of
Arthur Wing Pinero", E. P. Dutton and Company, New
York; Brander Matthews, "Inquiries and Opinions",
Charles Scribner's Sons, and "A Study of the Drama",
Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston; Arthur Pinero,
"Robert Louis Stevenson, The Dramatist", Dramatic
Museum, Columbia University, New York, and "Browning
as a Dramatist", London (privately printed).

Magazines: Munsey's, vol. x, p. 247, New York; Book-
buyer, vol. xvii, p. 301, New York; Forum, vol. xxvi, p. 119,
vol. xlvii, p. 494, New York; Theater, vol. xxxiv, p. 3, New
York; Nation, vol. lxxxiii, p. 211, New York; North American
Review, vol. clxxxviii, p. 38, New York; Critic, vol. xxxvii,
p. 117, New York; Collier's Weekly, vol. xlviii, p. 34, New
York; Living Age, vol. cclxxviii, p. 265, Boston; Blackwood's,
vol. clxvii, 837, London.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

A FANTASY

By ARTHUR PINERO

"The Widow of Wasdale Head" was first produced at
London in 1912.

Characters

Sir John Hunslet
Mr. Edward Fane
Tubal (A servant at the inn)
Reuben (Sir John's man)
The Visitor
Mrs. Jesmond

Scene : A room in an inn at Wasdale Head in Cumberland.
Time: In the reign of George the Third.

Reprinted from the private copy, "not for circulation", by special arrangement with
Sir Arthur Pinero, who controls all the rights to the play.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

A gloomy, ancient room, partly panelled in oak, of the time
of Henry the Eighth. Its ceiling, heavy with massive beams,
is blackened by age; and altogether the apartment, which bears
the appearance of having once belonged to a private mansion, is
fallen considerably into decay. In the wall on the right there
is a cavernous fireplace; facing the spectator is a deep bay-
window, heavily shuttered and barred; on the left of the window,
against the further wall, a steep staircase mounts to a landing
from which a door opens into a narrow passage; and under the
landing, in the left-hand wall and on the level of the floor, there
is another door, also admitting to a passage.

In the middle of the room there is a round table with a chair on
its right and left. A decanter of red wine and some glasses, a jar
of tobacco and a tray of clay pipes, and a candlestick of two
branches are on the table. Against the wall on the left, a chair
on each side of it, is an escritoire, and on the top of the escritoire
is a standish; and against the staircase, concealing the space
beneath, there is an oaken dresser bright with crockery ware,
pewter dishes and plates, and other utensils. In the bay of
the window are a small table and stool. A riding-cloak is
thrown over the stool, and lying upon the table are a hat, a riding-
whip, a pair of gauntlets, and two pistols in their holster-cases.
A capacious arm-chair stands before the fireplace, and within
the fireplace, at the further side, there is a chimney-seat. A
clock and a chest filled with logs occupy spaces against the
right-hand wall; and on the wall against which runs the flight
of stairs a number of hunting trophies are arranged, including
a hunting-horn hanging by a cord from a nail.

10 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

The room is lighted by the candle on the round table and by

candles in sconces attached to the wall on the left. 1 A fire is

burning.

Seated at the round table, the one smoking and drinking, the

other deep in thought, are Sir John Hunslet and Edward Fane.

Tubal is engaged at the dresser. The wind is moaning.

sir john (A gallant-looking gentleman of eight-and-twenty,
accoutred in a handsome riding-dress and a periwig — on
the left of the table) Ned, my dear fellow, you don't
drink !

edward (^4 grave young man of twenty-five, richly but soberly
attired and wearing his own dark hair — rousing himself and
filling his glass) A thousand pardons, Jack! (Drinking)
Welcome !

[Tubal, bearing a pair of snuffers upon a dish, advances to
the round table and trims the candles. The moaning of the
wind rises to a howl.

sir john (to Tubal). A wild night, my friend.

tubal (A venerable, wizen figure, half groom, half waiter).
Aye, an' 'tis like t' be warser afwore mworn. Theer'll be
sleats lowsed an' fleein' this neet, depend on't. Heav'n
send th' chimley-stacks do hod oot !

sir john. Amen! (Tubal replaces the snuffers upon the
dresser. There is a sharp, shrill sound from without, resem-
bling the cry of a bird) What is that?

edward. The sign of the house. 'Twill creak in that fashion,
in the wind, for hours.

sir JOHN. 'Gad, an agreeable prospect! (Tubal, carrying a
tray upon which are some remnants of a meal, goes out at the
door under the landing. Sir John, glancing over his shoulder,
assures himself that he and Edward are alone) At last!
(Rekindling his pipe at the flame of one of the candles) I
thought that ancient servitor would never leave us. (Ed-
ward rises and, walking away, stands gazing into the fire)
And now, my dear Ned — my very dear Ned — in amicitid

i Throughout, "right" and "left" are the spectators' right and left, not
the actor's.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 11

autem nihil fictum, as we learned to say at school — let me
inform you without further delay of the cause of this in-
trusion.

edward. 'Tis no intrusion; and, to be candid, I have
guessed the object of your visit already.

sir john. Indeed? That being the case

edward. Confound you, Jack, you don't suppose I attribute
your sudden and unlooked-for appearance to mere inclina-
tion for a gossip over a bottle! A man — Jack Hunslet
least of all — does not quit town at this time of the year,
journeying three hundred miles into the bargain, without
an urgent reason. (Facing Sir John) Confess you are
upon a mission.

sir john (smiling). Since you press me

edward. You are sent by my mother.

sir john. The poor fond lady is vastly concerned at your
absence.

edward. In the name of patience, why? Her letters
plague me to death, Jack.

shi john. My good Ned, do, I entreat, reflect. With your
usual perspicacity you have just observed that it must be
a strong inducement that draws a town man into the
country at this season. And yet

edward. Such an inducement was mine. I came into
Cumberland in fulfilment of a pledge to Sir Roger Boult-
wood — a pledge of long standing

sir john. To be his guest at Hawkshead Priory. Your stay
at Hawkshead ended two months ago.

edward. In the meanwhile I had become bitten by the
romantic beauty of the district. By the Lord, Jack, 'tis a
lovely locality, in spite of flood and tempest!

sir john. Ah, I am forgetting you are a poet, and a mon-
strous pretty one to boot!

edward. Pshaw! Pray don't roast me for my follies.

sir john (laying his -pipe aside). My dear fellow, if our
follies ceased with the scribbling of verses, we should be
warranted in esteeming ourselves wise. (Rising) And so

U THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

'tis solely the beauty of the district that detains you, hey,
Ned?

edward. Chance directed rue to this particular spot; and
my nag falling lame almost at the door here

sir johx (approaching Edward). You determined to cul-
tivate the muse, and to seek inspiration, by this sombre
lake; (producing his snuff-box) putting up at a bare inn,
(significantly) and despatching your servant back to Kens-
ington within a fortnight.

edward (embarrassed). Why, as forth at, I — I found I had
little need for Gregory. He did but kick his heels about
the place discontentedly.

sir john (taking snuff). The sublimity of the scene proving
less attractive to him than to his master. (Closing his
snuff-box) Well?

edward. W-well?

sir johx. And when I have made my compliments at
Hawkshead and, with your aid, explored this enchanting
neighbourhood, do we travel home in company? (There is
a moment's hesitation on Edward's part, and then he moves to
the middle of the room without speaking. Sir John looks
after him inquiringly) Xed!

edward (hanging his head). Forgive me, Jack. I declare
again 'tis the most beautiful district in the kingdom;
nevertheless, I am deceiving you, Jack, woefully.
[The door under the landing opens and Mrs. Jesmond enters
followed by Tubal, the latter carrying a bowl of steaming
punch, and instantly the wind increases in force and the sign-
board resumes its squeaking. The loud slamming of distant
doors is also heard. Mrs. Jesmond is an elegant, girlish
young lady, charmingly but simply dressed. She curtsies to
Sir John and to Edward and then takes the bowl from Tubal
and places it upon the round table.

mrs. jesmond (to Tubal). Secure the doors of the buttery,
Tubal; 'tis they that are banging. (Tubal shuffles out and
Mrs. Jesmond addresses Sir John, wlio is regarding her with
respectful amazement. The wind lulls) I am sorry I was not

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 13

by to receive you, sir. Late as it was, I was at my farm at
Burnthwaite where I am in trouble with some sick beasts.
I hear you have rid from Ulverston to-day, which is a
weary road.

sir john (stammering). Why, yes, I — I

edward (presenting Sir John). This gentleman is my friend
Sir John Hunslet

MRS. jesmond (curtseying again). Nay, if I had not been
apprised of his arrival, there would be no necessity to name
him. (Advancing to Sir John) I saw Sir John once, when
I was a child, driving his curricle in Hyde Park, and am
never likely to forget the fine show he made.

sir john (bowing low) . Madam, I — I — I am vastly honoured
by your recollection of the circumstance.

mrs. jesmond. Mr. Fane is heartily glad to see you here,
Sir John; of that I am assured. Wasdale Head is but a
stern and solitary spot at all times, and March our drea-
riest month. 1

sir john. 'Faith, ma'am, Mr. Fane is no more rejoiced to
see me than I him. We were condiscipuli at Winchester
College and I hold him in great affection. (Bowing again
profoundly) And suffer me to add that it increases my
happiness in no inconsiderable degree

mrs. jesmond (turning to Edward merrily). La! I fear Sir
John doth not even yet apprehend who and what I am.
Pray enlighten him.

edward (on the left). Mrs. Jesmond, Jack, is mistress of
this inn and tenant also of lands adjacent to it. (Another
bow from Sir John, whose wonderment increases) 'Twill
make you better acquainted with her when I tell you that
she was Miss Woodroffe — Miss Elizabeth Woodroffe of
Appleby.

sir john. One of the Woodroffes of Appleby ! (Seizing Mrs.
Jesmond' s hand) My dear madam!

mrs. jesmond (withdrawing her hand). Nay, sir; my family
and I are at enmity. (Mournfully) Widow of Mr. Henry
1 Wasdale: — pronounced Wassdale, the a as in was.

14 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

Jesmond of Egremont; I prefer that description.

sir john. A widow, ma'am!

mrs. jesmond (dropping another curtsey). Two years a
widow, and a humble taverner and farmer; and at your
service. (To Edward) I have brought you a bowl of
punch, Mr. Fane, thinking it will be grateful to your
friend after his long journey. (To Sir John) 'Tis of my
mixing, and I beg your indulgence for the widow's offering.

sir john. 'Gad, madam, I swear you shall join us! (To
Edward, who goes to the dresser) A third glass, Ned !

mrs. jesmond (hastening to the staircase). Oh, mercy, Sir
John !

sir john (following her and regaining possession of her hand).
I insist ! (Leading her to the round table) On my knees !

mrs. jesmond (laughing). Ha, ha, ha!

[The wind howls again and the sign-board creaks. Edward
carries three glasses to the table, and Mrs. Jesmond fills two
of the glasses to the brim and hands them to the gentlemen who
stand one on each side of her. As she ladles a little of the
punch into the third glass, the wind abates.

sir john (at the right of the table). Come, ma'am; bumpers!
Ah, but that's not fair ! Bumpers ! (The men drink, and Mrs.
Jesmond touches her lips with her glass) 'Pon my soul, 'tis
delicious! 'Tis nectar! I lie facit dites animos deus, Ned;
you remember! (To Mrs. Jesmond) Permit me to com-
pliment you on your skill, ma'am.

mrs. jesmond (replenishing the men's glasses, modestly). The
credit is none of mine, Sir John. (In a sad voice) 'Twas
my dear Harry that taught me.

sir john (coughing sympathetically). Ahem! Ahem! (Ab-
ruptly) A toast! I call a toast, Ned! (Raising his glass
and looking at Mrs. Jesmond with admiration) I give
you

mrs. jesmond (quickly, raising her glass). The King!

sir john. Why, certainly, ma'am; and I am obleeged to
you for the reminder. His Most Gracious Majesty King
George !

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 15

edward (drinking). The King!

sir john (drinking). God bless him! (Looking at Mrs. Jes-

mond again) Another!
mrs. jesmond. Nay; spare me!
sir john. Ned ! (Raising his glass) To the Lady of Was-

dale!
edward. The Lady of Wasdale !

[The wind gives a sudden roar as the men drink the toast, and

then subsides.
mrs. jesmond (curtseying once more). The widow thanks you,

gentlemen, for your amiability; and with a full heart.

(With a change of manner) And now, if you will excuse me,

I will go to your bedchambers and see that your beds are

properly prepared.
sir john (seizing the candlestick from the round table) . Allow

me to light you, ma'am.
mrs. jesmond (running up the stairs). 'Tis not necessary; a

lantern hangs in the corridor.

[She makes a final curtsey on the landing and withdraws,

leaving Sir John half-way up the stairs where he remains for

a while as if rooted. Edward walks over to the fireplace and

again gazes down into the burning logs.
sir john (after a silence). As I live, an adorable creature!

(He descends the stairs softly, replaces the candlestick, and

stands contemplating Edward) Ned!
edward. Jack?
sir john. Ton my conscience, you are right; Wasdale is

the most beautiful district in the kingdom!
edward (turning to him). Ah, Jack, 'tis no matter for jesting.
sir john. Jesting! I swear I am all seriousness.
edward (ardently). Nay, then, if you are in earnest, is she

not charming?
sir john. Charming? A divinity! (W alking about animatedly)

'Gad, you may well describe this as a romantic locality!
A Woodroffe of Appleby the mistress of a house of public
entertainment! Prodigious! (Sitting in the chair on the left
of the round table) How the devil !

16 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

edward (coming to the right of the table). 'Tis a simple story.
Young Mr. Henry Jesmond of Egremont, having squan-
dered the greater part of his patrimony, established him-
self here, with what remained of his fortune, as farmer and
innkeeper. A short time previously, he had met Miss
Elizabeth Woodroffe at the Hunt Assembly at Kendal, and
they had become desperately taken with each other. Her
parents, discovering the undesirable attachment, inter-
cepted communication between the lovers and confined
their child within doors. Vain precautions! Elizabeth
forced an escape, ran off with the object of her girlish
infatuation, and married him.

sir john. 'Faith, since she hath been two years a widow,
he must have carried her to church in a go-cart!

edward. She was indeed but fifteen. She is little over
seventeen now.

sir john. The deuce! 'Twas a brief wedded life.

edward. A month.

sir john. Good Lud!

edward. Riding homeward on a dark night with some boon
companions from the hunt at Muncaster, Mr. Jesmond was
thrown and mortally hurt. He breathed long enough, so
the tale is told, to take his pistol from its holster and to
shoot his poor mare, who had broke a leg; and then he laid
his head upon her warm ribs and stirred no more.

sir john (shocked). My dear Ned! (Fastidiously) Leaving
this delicately -bred young lady, estranged from her fam-
ily, to brew punch, and to till the soil, for her subsistence!

edward (sitting at the right of the table). Why, Jack, there's
the wonder of it! Mrs. Jesmond's aptitude is amazing.
Among the farmers hereabouts — statesmen, they term
them in Cumberland — there's not one can match her in
knowledge of crops and cattle. (The wind murmurs gently,
almost musically) I have seen the oldest and wisest of them
approach her, hat in hand, to ask her counsel in a difficulty;
and her reply is always the same.

sir john. The same?

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 17

edward. "Come back to me," she will say, "as soon as you
please after Friday, and you shall have my advice.''

sir john. Friday?

edward (checking himself and then nodding uneasily) . Er —
'tis on a Friday night, when her household is abed and the
inn is silent, that she sits here alone and reads her farming-
manuals, and makes up her books of account, and puts on
her considering-cap, as she phrases it. (Looking round)
We are in her parlour, Jack.

sir john (listening). How the wind sings! It hath a voice
in it, positively! (To Edward) Her parlour?

edward (nodding again). Aye; the principal guest-chambers
are shut throughout the winter, and so she hath placed her
room at my disposal. Every Fiiday night, at the stroke
of ten, I leave her here, preparing for her vigil. (Suddenly)
What is to-day?

sir john. Friday.

[The wind utters a loud wail and the sign-board creaks.

edward (rising and glancing at the clock). And look; 'tis
close on ten now.

[He resumes his former position at the fireplace and the wind
its tuneful murmuring.

sir john (after another silence). Well, I own I am mightily
relieved, Ned. (Rising) 'Tis precisely as I suspected — that
you had become entangled in a petticoat; (going to the
punch-bowl and helping himself to punch) but a Woodroffe
of Appleby is naught to be ashamed of, though 'twill be
the tittle-tattle of the clubs and tea-tables that your
mistress hath kept a mug-house. (Drinking) Have you
declared yourself yet?

edward (still staring into the fire). No.

sir john (smacking his lips). 'Pon my honour, she is vastly
genteel; she hath the bel air completely! I wager many
of our town misses and madams — (He breaks of, regarding
Edward with surprise. The wind ceases) Why, man, what
ails you? If Mrs. Jesmond had declined your suit, you
could hardly be more glum.

18 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

edward (confronting Sir John). Jack!

sir john (startled at Edward's aspect). Ned?

edward. Oh, Jack, I must confide in you! I am in torture!

sir john. Torture?

edward. Terrible, grinding torment!

sir john (joining Edward) . Odds life, what's this ! Have you
discovered that the widow wears a false curl or two?

edward. For mercy's sake, don't take me lightly! (In a
whisper) Jack, there is a mystery in this house.

sir john. Confusion!

edward. A hideous mystery. (Passing Sir John and pacing
the room on the left) And 'tis torturing me -driving me to
distraction; and yet I lack the courage to attempt to un-
ravel it.

sir john (coming to the round table). Explain, Ned!

edward. Oh, Jack, 'tis true that I leave Mrs. Jesmond
here, and alone, every Friday night; (halting) but — Heaven
forgive me for doubting her ! — (laughing mirthlessly) ha, ha,
ha, ha ! — I fear she doesn't remain alone, Jack.

sir john. The devil !

edward (gripping the back of the chair at the left of the round
table). Hell fury, no; unless she hath the habit of talking
to herself, her vigil is no solitary one!

sir john. Talking to herself!

edward (sitting and putting his elbows on the table and digging
his fingers into his hair) . Ha, ha, ha, ha ! (Groaning) Oh,
Jack, Jack!

[Again there is a pause. Sir John slowly produces his snuff-
box.

sir john. Humph! (Tapping the box) 'Gad, you disappoint
me, Ned; you do really! Who would have thought it of
her? (Taking snuff) Pish! The jades; they are all of a
pattern! (To Edward) When ? \The wind revives.

edward (raising his head). 'Twas the Friday night in the
second week of my lodging here, and I had retired to my
bedchamber carrying with me the delightful vision of her
graceful, slender form as she sate, in this chair, bending over

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 19

her books and papers. Some time after reaching my
apartment, I recollected that I had left a letter from my
mother lying upon the escritoire yonder; and I ordered my
servant to fetch it. Presently the man reappeared, saying
that, hearing Mrs. Jesmond's voice apparently in conver-
sation, he had deemed it prudent not to risk incurring her
displeasure by disturbing her.

sir john. In conversation?

edward. I dismissed Gregory and stood for a while at my
window, viewing the thick clouds scudding across the
Pikes. Suddenly the idea possessed me to return, myself,
to this room and recover my letter. Ha! The letter con-
tained nothing of a private nature. I perceive now that
'twas merely a feeling of jealous surprise that impelled me.

sir john (his foot upon the rail of the chair on the right of the
round table). You returned?

edward. Yes. My ear was at the door, and I was waver-
ing whether I should rap, when I was arrested by a sound
behind me; and there was my servant, sheltered in an angle
of the corridor, watching me curiously. I made an idle
remark and again retired to my room; and the next morn-
ing I packed the fellow off to London, lest, his suspicions
being aroused, he should play the spy on his own account.

sir john. What had you heard while listening at the door?

edward. The low muttering of a voice, or of voices. I
could distinguish nothing clearly, save that there was talk-
ing. {Glancing at the door on the landing) The door is
stout and, as you see, distant.

sir john. And since then?

edward. Every Friday night 'tis the same. I steal to the
door, hear the same whisperings, and slink back irreso-
lutely to my bedchamber. Stay! Twice or thrice I have
heard a soft, wailful note, as if from an instrument, pro-
ceeding from this room.

sir john {bringing himself erect). A signal!

edward. 'Sdeath, the thought hath crossed my mind ! (He
rises and, ascending the stairs, removes the hunting-horn from

20 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

its nail) 'Tis such an instrument as this that would pro-
duce the sound.

sir joiin (following Edward and standing by the dresser). A
hunting-horn.

edward. 'Twas the property of the late Mr. Jesmond, I
suspect. (Doubtfully) But 'tis dull for want of
use.

sir john. Nay, 'tis you that are dull. Look if its mouth is
bright.

edward (examining the mouth of the horn). Why, yes; the
metal here shines like a guinea!

sir joiin. Ha! I lay five to four that is not the only mouth
pressed by those lips of hers! (Edivard replaces the horn
and descends the stairs) My poor dear Ned, 'tis as plain
as noonday; the widow's weekly vigil is but a ruse for
entertaining her amoret at her ease. The trull! Fronti
nulla fides! But you shall expose her, and to-night. (Look-
ing at the door on the landing and then pointing to the fire)
Quick; some ashes from the hearth! I'll fill the lock with
'em and stop her turning the key.

edward (who is again at the fireplace gazing into the logs).
There is no lock on either door. They are bolted from with-
out.

sir john. Strange! The widow is somewhat incautious.
However, 'twill make your task the easier. (Edward faces
Sir John with a gesture of protest) Come, man, away with
your scruples! We will leave the pretty witch to her pre-
tence of poring over her damnable books; and then you
shall return and walk boldly in, and interrupt her at her
devotions.

edward. By what right, Jack?

sir john. Pshaw ! Do you imagine she isn't aware that you
are honestly enamoured of her, though no word hath yet
been spoke? There is title sufficient for you. (Sharply)
Is your sword hanging in your bedchamber?

edward. Yes.

sir john. Put it up at your side.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 21

edward. Why, would you have me a murderer as well as
an eavesdropper?

sir john. 'Faith, I'd have you ready to defend yourself. A
young lady of ton would scarcely dally with one of the clods
of this beautiful district. (Going to the table in the bay of the
window and examining the pistols) 'Tis to a gentleman of
the road, probably — a cut-throat highwayman — that she
extends her hospitality. (Taking up his hat, whip, and
gauntlets, and carefidly laying his cloak over the pistols)
These pistols are well primed. I'll warn Reuben not to
remove them.

edward (bursting out). Oh, Jack, Jack, 'tis impossible!

sir john. Impossible?

edward (ivalking across the room). 'Tis impossible that
she should be frail. I'll not believe it. She hath the look
and the bearing of an angel. Her eyes, Jack! Did you
observe her eyes?

sir john (standing with his back to the fire). Hang 'em, they
are brilliant!

edward. Nay, they're not brilliant. They resemble the
blue of a summer morning ere the mist is dispelled. (Pac-
ing up and down) Her voice too! Her voice!

sir john. 'Tis most musical, I admit.

edward. Her voice hath the quality of the harp in it, when
its strings are half muffled. (Fiercely) Mark me, Jack, if I
find her no better than she should be, I'll never trust
woman again!

sir john (taking snuff) . Ned

edward. Never! Never!

sir john. Ned, I protest you recall Mr. Garrick to me, as
the blackamoor in Shakespeare's play.

edward. Ah !

sir john. When the great little man quits the stage, you
shall fill his place, my dear Ned; I vow you shall.
[The wind swells for a moment as Mrs. Jesmond enters at the
door under the landing, followed by Tubal, with a lantern,
and by Reuben who is carrying two lighted candles in candle-

%Z THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

sticks. Tubal goes to the window and, raising the lantern
above his head, passes his hand over the bars of the shutters.

MRS. jesmond (to Edward, sweetly but gravely). 'Tis past
ten o'clock. (Glancing at Sir John) You have told Sir
John?

sir john (advancing a few steps). Why, yes, ma'am; and,
to say the truth, I shall not be sorry to find myself in a
soft bed, and between a pair of sweet-smelling sheets, at
an earlier hour than is customable with me.

reuben (a bluff, burly fellow — standing by the table) . Nor I
either, sir. For of all the clattering, gusty places I've ever
laid in, this Wasdale is the gustiest and the clatteringest —
(to Mrs. Jesmond) saving your presence, ma'am.

sir john. Silence, Reuben! (To Mrs. Jesmond, with a wave
of the hand towards Reuben) A good, faithful animal, Mrs.
Jesmond, but plaguily rough-tongued.

reuben. Well, sir, my tongue can't be rougher than the
Cumberland weather; that's one comfort. (Going to Edward
and presenting him with a candlestick as Mrs. Jesmond
crosses to Sir John) You'd best shield it with your hand,
Mr. Fane

mrs. jesmond (to Sir John). Good-night, Sir John. (Curt-
seying) 'Tis mighty civil of you to profess your willing-
ness to be sent to bed like a bad child. (Giving him her
hand) You must dream you are in London, sir, and card-
playing en petit comite with some choice cronies.

sir john (bending over her hand). Nay, madam, my dreams
shall be of a far more interesting sort, I promise you.
[She curtsies to him again and returns to Edward who is
watching her narrowly. Tubal is now at the fireplace,
mending the fire, and Reuben at the table in the bay
window.

mrs. jesmond (giving her hand to Edward, a note of tenderness
in her voice). Good-night, Mr. Fane.

edward (with downcast eyes). Good-night.

[He moves away and Mrs. Jesmond goes to the escritoire and
opens it with a key which dangles with others from her waist.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 23

Seeing that Reuben is taking up the riding-cloak and the
pistols, Sir John hastens to him on tiptoe.

sir john (under his breath, to Reuben). No!

reuben (astonished). Sir!

sir john (his finger to his lips). Ssst! (He motions to Reuben
to replace the pistols and riding-cloak. Reuben does so)
And now, my dear Ned — (taking his candle from Reuben
and yawning demonstratively) ah-h-h-h! — I declare I am
as sleepy as the veriest owl. (He signs to Edward to pre-
cede him, but Edward yields him the pas) My dear fellow!
(He ascends the stairs, Edward following him, as Mrs. Jes-
mond carries some books to the round table and deposits them
there. Sir John makes her a grand bow from the landing,
Edward a lesser one) My dear madam !
[Mrs. Jesmond curtsies to them deeply and returns to the
escritoire. Sir John and Edward retire. Tubal shuffles
across the room on his way to the door under the
landing.

reuben (in a low voice, clapping Tubal on the back). Good-
night, old buck! (Tubal has a fit of coughing) Why, a
man of your kidney should be in London. You'd turn
all the girls' heads in London within a week. (To
Mrs. Jesmond, as he goes up the stairs) Good-night,
ma'am.

MRS. jesmond (bringing more books and some papers to the
table). Good-night, friend.

[Reuben withdraws, closing the door.

tubal (at the door under the landing, to Mrs. Jesmond). Be
theer owt else I can do fer 'ee?

mrs. jesmond. No, I thank you, Tubal. Are the maids in
their beds?

tubal. Aye, an' deid asleeap, I reckon, t'hussies! Good-
neet, mistress.

mrs. jesmond. Good-night.

[Tubal disappears, closing the door, and the wind again be-
comes violent and the sign-board squeals as if in pain. Mrs.
Jesmond remains quite still for a while; then, deliberately and

24 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

methodically, and with an altered look on her face, she clears
the table of the punch-bowl, the decanter and glasses, and the
pipes and tobacco — carrying them to the dresser — and fetches
the standish from the escritoire. Having neatly set out her
books and papers and the standish upon the table, she goes to
the lower door, opens it a few inches and, after peeping along
the passage, shuts the door silently. She repeats this proceed-
ing at the door on the landing and finally, apparently satisfied,
comes half-way down the stairs and unliooks the hunting-horn
from the wall and blows a long, faint blast upon it; whereupon
the wind gives a thundering bellow, the flames of the candles
flicker, and for a moment there is almost total darkness.
Then a bluish light pervades the room and the Ghost of a
young man in hunting-dress and a bob-icig is seen, standing
in an easy attitude with its back to the fire. There is another
loud gust, followed by the crash of falling slates.

mrs. jesmond (regarding the Ghost with a tender expression and
speaking in soft, caressing tones). That's the slates of the
old lean-to in the stable-yard.

ghost (in a calm, matter-of-fact manner). Well, you raun
ha' 'em put on again, Betty. Gi' th' job to Hobbs at Ulver-
ston. I'm sick o' Finch of Gosforth; leastways I was, be-
fore I met wi' my accident.

[Mrs. Jesmond replaces the hunting-horn and descends the
stairs. Gradually the wind drops.

mrs. jesmond. 'Tis a terrible night for you to be abroad,
Hal. I had almost hoped you wouldn't obey my summons.

ghost (pulling off its filmy gloves) . Eh, there you go, lass !
How oft have I told thee th' weather makes no difference
to me! (Gloomily) All weather's one t' a ghost.

mrs. jesmond (with a sigh). Yes, I forget. (Looking down
at her books and papers) Shall we get to work?

ghost. Aye, sit thee doon. (She seats herself at the left of
the table and chooses a pen from the standish) An' hark ye!
If these winds continue t' blow, thou'dst best bring th'
ewe flock off th' fells into th' lowlands. D'ye hear?

mrs. jesmond. I hear, my dear.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 2.5

ghost (taking out a spectral snuff-box and making a pretence

of snuffing). Is there aught amiss this week here or at

th' farms?
mrs. jesmond. Four of the shorthorn bullocks at Burn-

thwaite are lame from kibe. W T hat am I to do for 'em?
ghost. Kibe! Why, I gave thee a remedy for kibe a year

since.
mrs. jesmond (pouting). I know you did, Hal; but I failed

to note it.
ghost (dusting its neckcloth with the phantom of a pocket-
handkerchief). I'm sorely af eared you've no head, Betty;

thou'rt but a heedless, gay-hearted wench. What ha' you

an' th' lads been doing for 't?
mrs. jesmond. Rubbing tallow-fat betwixt the claws of the

poor brutes.
ghost. Tallow-fat !
mrs. jesmond. Y-y-y-yes.
ghost. Zounds, I marvel you ha'n't rubbed in some o' th'

sweet pomade thou hast sent thee from Lunnon for thy

ringlets !
mrs. jesmond (sheepishly). He, he, he, he!
ghost. Ods-bobs, you may well grin ! 'Twould vastly tickle

me, were / alive. Come, dip thy pen in th' ink ! (Dictating)

"Kibe." '
mrs. jesmond (writing in a book). "Kibe "

ghost. "Anoint wi' blue vitriol an' hog's lard "

mrs. jesmond. "Blue vitriol "

ghost. Williams at St. Bridget's will sell thee blue vitriol.

(She goes on writing) Mix th' stuff half-an'-half, an' within

a fortnight th' beasts will be sound-footed.
mrs. jesmond (sanding her writing) . Thank you, dear Harry.
ghost. What's thy next item, Bet?
mrs. jesmond (rummaging among her papers). The next ?

(Breaking off and gazing at the apparition wistfully) Hal

ghost. Hey?

mrs. jesmond (in a voice full of yearning). Sit in thy chair

to-night, yonder, while I am questioning thee, wilt thou?

26 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

ghost (with an air of 'patronage). Certainly I will, child, if
it will afford thee any gratification. (Seating itself in the
arm-chair). 'Tis all th' same t' a ghost whether he be sit-
ting or standing or lying.

mrs. jesmond. Yes, but it seems more domestic to see thee
ensconced in what was thy accustomed seat.

ghost (throwing one leg over the other and sticking its thumbs
in the armholes of its waistcoat). Which posture d'ye most
fancy, Bet — this ?

mrs. jesmond (nodding). I remember thee in it con-
stantly.

ghost (extending its legs and resting his fists on its hips). Or
this?

mrs. jesmond. That was your position when you were en-
gaged in argument. I had rather the other. (The Ghost re-
sumes its previous attitude) Oh! Oh, that I might fill thy
pipe, and light it for thee at the candle, and slip the scarlet
end of it into thy poor mouth, as I used to do!

ghost. Nay, lass, that's talking sheer nonsense. (She
presses her eyes with the back of her hand) Come, 'tis no
good whimpering; whimpering won't mend matters. Get
on wi' thy work.

mrs. jesmond (leaning back in her chair and beating her
clenched hands on the table). Oh! Oh, how cold you are!
How cold you are!

ghost (annoyed). Cold! 'Pon my soul, that's monstrously
inconsiderate an' unkind!

mrs. jesmond. Ah, have I hurt thee?

ghost. Hurt me!

mrs. jesmond. I ask your pardon, Hal.

ghost. Nay, 'tis all very fine! (Rising) Thou know'st 'tis
not in my power to console thee.

mrs. jesmond (snatching at her pen) Ah, you're not vanish-
ing! You'll not vanish so soon! Harry! (The Ghost wags
its head sulkily) Harry! Harry!

ghost. I'll not if thou'lt be reasonable an' polite, an' I can
sarve thee.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 27

mrs. jesmond. I will be reasonable; I will be. Oh, 'tis as
hard on you as on me that, being a shade, you cannot take
me to your breast; and 'twas cruel of me to complain! I
swear I won't offend again, Hal.

ghost (loftily, repeating its performance with the snuff-boic).
Proceed, then.

mrs. jesmond. Thank you, my dear. (Drying her eyes
hurriedly and referring to a paper) Andrew Todd of Mickle
Gill hath begged me to test an example of oats that he hath
brought me. The germination of his oat-seed last season
greatly discontented him.

ghost (curling its lip). Zooks, but Andrew was ever a fool!

mrs. jesmond (humbly). Nay, I am worse; for I am even
more ignorant than Andrew how to make the test.

ghost. I'll tell 'ee. Tear two strips from thine old flannel-
petticoat an' lay th' seed between 'em an' float 'em in a
crock full o' water. (She again writes in her book) Stand th'
vessel in thy sunniest window, an' in less than three days
thou'lt be able to show Todd how many of his oats are
speared. (With a hollow, vain laugh) Ha, ha, Maister
Todd!

mrs. jesmond (throwing down her pen suddenly and leaning
her head upon her hands). Oh, Hal, Hal!

ghost. Why, what's wrong wi' thee now?

mrs. jesmond. Alas, and alas, I am but an impostor!

ghost. Impostor?

mrs. jesmond (starting up and walking about). A cheat! I
despise myself for fobbing off these dalesmen with the
belief that 'tis I that helps them in their difficulties.

ghost. Why, 'tis you that do it, Betty, in sober truth.

mrs. jesmond (reprovingly). Harry!

ghost. I say 'tis so. An' were I alive, I should be con-
sumedly proud of you, Bet; I should, b' George, though I
do upbraid thee on occasions when thou dost desarve it.

mrs. jesmond. Thou wert never logical, Harry! Were you
alive, 'twould be known that the cleverness is all thine.
(Leaning upon the dresser) Oh, 'twould relieve my con-

28 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

science of a heavy burden, could I but reveal that you visit
me in this manner!

ghost. An' scare th' folks for miles round! Th' inn an' th'
farms 'ud be shunned, an' thou'd be reduced to beggary.

mrs. jesmond {dejectedly). Oh! Oh!

ghost. Nay, you need ha' no qualms on that score, lass.
'Tis lucky, I confess, that I had a bent for farming as well
as for dicing an' cock-fighting; but husband an' wife are
one, an' so, I take it, are a widow an' her husband's ghost,
till she falls in love wi' another chap. {Drawing itself up)
There's logic for thee! {The wind is heard again, and a
whistle from the sign-board. The Ghost's expression changes)
'Egad, but that reminds me, Bet !

mrs. jesmond. Of what, Hal?

ghost {scowling). Speaking o' falling in love, th' young
gentleman that quartered himself here two months ago is
still under thy roof. {Her body slowly stiffens) Thou didst
mention his name an' quality to me once

mrs. jesmond {turning to the Ghost, but avoiding its eyes).
Mr. Edward Fane? He resides with his mother, who is
wealthy, at Kensington in London.

ghost {with a sneer). That's him; a handsome, black young
man, in 's own hair.

mrs. jesmond {advancing frigidly). Why, indeed, Mr. Fane
wears neither wig nor powder; but, for the rest, I have
scarce observed his looks.

ghost. 'Faith, he hath obsarved thine! I've seen him
through th' shutters, as I've rid past thy window on my
grey mare, an' he hath been sitting opposite thee at table
an' gazing at thee most fixedly.

mrs. jesmond {shrugging her shoulders). 'Tis when Mr.
Fane and I have been playing a game of backgammon
together that you must have remarked us.

ghost. Eh, so you play backgammon wi' him, do 'ee, Betty?

mrs. jesmond. To while away his evenings. {Fingering the
back of the chair on the left of the round table) Wasdale hath
few attractions for a man of fashion; and this one is so

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 29

excellent a customer that 'tis worth taking some pains to
divert him.

ghost. Nay, I wager he finds no lack of divarsion at Was-
dale, or he'd not linger as he does. (Lowering at her) He's
sweet on thee, lass, to a certainty.

mrs. jesmond (indignantly). Hal!

ghost. Aye, an' I warn thee, thou'lt be losing thy heart to
him, if thou'rt not careful.

mrs. jesmond. Harry!

ghost (bitterly). An' then I shall hear th' blast o' th' horn
no more o' Friday nights, in spite of all thy oaths an'
tears an' protestations; an' thou'lt cast me aside, an' out
o' thy thoughts, like thy worn padesoy!

mrs. jesmond. Oh! Oh! As if I could ever be inconstant
to thee, my first and last love! Shame on you, poor grisly
thing that thou art, for thinking it of me!

ghost. Dang it, there you go again! Grisly!

mrs. jesmond (moving about the room, in a heat). Oh! Oh!
I'll play no more backgammon with Mr. Fane from this
time forth, I do assure you, nor with any other living
man ! Oh !

ghost. 'Twas not backgammon you were playing when I
last espied you both, Betty. Mr. Fane had a paper in
's hand an' appeared to be reciting to thee.

mrs. jesmond (halting). Ah, yes; he hath a taste for writing
poetry, and was reading one of his compositions. (Re-
turning to the table, eagerly) That is the reason Mr. Fane
lingers at Wasdale, Harry; the grandeur of the district
elevates his mind, he declares. Immediately he reined up
at this door, two months back, and I went out to greet him,
he looked at me and said, "Why, madam, this is the very
spot I have been searching for in my dreams!"

ghost (giving another hollow laugh). Ha, ha, ha, ha!

mrs. jesmond (reproachfully). Oh, Hal, thou wert never
bookish; you never knew aught of poets and their ways!

ghost. Not I. An' what's his poetry like, lass? I warrant
'tis all "love" an' "dove ", an' that sort o' muck.

30 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

mrs. jesmond. Nay, 'tis somewhat better than muck;

though of no great merit perhaps.

ghost. The piece he was reading when I watched thee ?

mrs. jesmond. 'Twas called — how was it styled? — "To

Aminta "

ghost. Aminta?

mrs. jesmond. "Aminta" is a fanciful conceit; she is no

real person. 'Tis modish in a poet to inscribe his rhymes to

Julia, or Chloe, or — or Aminta. Pshaw ! Thou shalt judge

how harmless the verses are. (Disdainfully) "To Aminta,

a Lady Dwelling in the Country."
ghost (suspiciously). A lady dwelling i' th' country?
mrs. jesmond (reciting, at first with a show of indifference,

then with genuine fervour).

Belov'd Aminta, shall thy lone retreat
Hold thee for ever in his close embrace,
Whilst the vast waters stretching at thy feet
Capture the sole reflection of thy face?
Nay, let the lordly hill, the softer glen,
In Nature's sempiternal gifts secure,
Suffer thy charms t' illume the haunts of Men,
Purge the vile Town and make the City pure!

[She stands absorbed, looking into space. After a short silence,

the sign-board creaks again gently.
ghost. Ha, ha, ha, ha! (She starts) Why, thou hast learned

every syllable of it !
mrs. jesmond (guiltily). Oh, 'tis but simple stuff, and readily

committed to memory.
ghost. A lady dwelling i' th' country! 'Tis thee, o' course!
Mrs. jesmond. La, there are hundreds of ladies that dwell

in solitude in the country, Hal!
ghost. "Whilst the vast waters stretching at thy feet — "!

'Tis our lake o' Wastwater!
mrs. jesmond (resuming her seat at the table and handling her

papers in a flutter). Nay, I am weary of talking about

this Mr. Fane

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 31

ghost. An' he'd bear thee off t' Lunnon, would he, t' th'

haunts o' men, th' !

mrs. jesmond (picking up a paper hastily). I've a question
to ask thee concerning the crooked field below Buck-
barrow

ghost. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

mrs. jesmond. Harry ! (There is a sharp knocking at

the upper door, followed by the click of the latch) Ah ! (Again
the wind thunders, and again the candle-flames flicker and
the room is momentarily in semi-darkness. Then the room
brightens and Edward is seen upon the landing. The Ghost
has disappeared) Who's there?

[Edward shuts the door at which he has entered and, staring
about him wildly, rapidly descends the stairs. The wind
moderates.
edward. Tis I. (Running his eyes round the room) For-
give me, madam.
mrs. jesmond (composedly, as though engrossed in work).
Indeed, sir, you might have waited till I bade you
come in.
edward (bewildered). M-m-may I have a word with

you?
mrs. jesmond. If you will remember that I am at my
books and papers, and that even an innkeeper is not always
at the beck-and-call of a guest.
edward (bowing). Nay, ma'am, I have apologized for my
fault. (Looking keenly in the direction of the lower door and
the space under the staircase) The fact is that, hearing
voices, I had less compunction in breaking in upon you
than I should otherwise have had.
mrs. jesmond (with assumed surprise). Voices?
edward. The sounds of talking and laughing.
mrs. jesmond. Why, Mr. Fane, 'tis not improbable that I

chatter to myself while I am calculating my figures.
edward. And laugh!

mrs. jesmond. And laugh. (Rising and moving to the fire-
place) The farmer — man or woman — that attempts to

32 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

cultivate this grudging valley may well laugh, sir, though
the laugh be on the wrong side o' the mouth. 1

edward. Oh, but this is evasion ! Mrs. Jesmond !

mrs. jesmond. Evasion!

edward. Is there anybody concealed here?

mrs. jesmond. Concealed?

edward (peering into the space beneath the staircase and then
returning and confronting her). Nay, then, he must have
left the room as I entered it, and by this door !

mrs. jesmond. Mr. Fane!

edward (going to her). I swear I heard more than one
voice, and that a man's! By Heaven, you are deceiving
me!

mrs. jesmond. Deceiving you , sir ! (Haughtily) Why, what
am I to you, or you to me, that I should deceive you, or
enlighten you, on any affair that doth not concern your
abode at this inn? So that your bed is clean, and your
food wholesome, and my charges are just and fairly reck-
oned, and you acquit them promptly, what obligations,
pray, are we under to each other? (Stamping her foot)
Withdraw from my room, Mr. Fane, and suffer me to re-
sume my work ! Stand aside, sir ! (He allows her to pass him
but, as she does so, he catches her by the arms) Unhand me!

edward (passionately) . Mrs. Jesmond !

mrs. jesmond (releasing herself and facing him). Oh, 'tis
cowardly of you; and when my servants are abed, and I
am unprotected ! (He retreats a step or two) Oh ! You that
have writ such tender poems, and delivered them with so
much sensibility!

edward (with dignity). Nay, madam, you misinterpret my
action. Believe me you have nothing to fear from my
violence. (Drawing himself erect) And yet you are right;
I am a coward, and an arrant one.

mrs. jesmond. Mr. Fane!

1 Her farm at Burnthwaite seems to have been decidedly unprosperous,
for to-day not a trace of cultivation exists between Wasdale Head and the
Buttermere valley.

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 33

edward. A coward. What else am I when I have hesitated

so long to free myself from the malign spell your beauty

hath cast upon me !

_ i

MRS. jesmond (faintly). Malign —

edward. When, suspecting you to be false and unworthy —
as I have for many weeks past, and as I have to-night
proved you to be — I have foolishly persuaded myself,
against my innermost convictions, of your probity and
virtue !

mrs. jesmond. False and unworthy! You are mad, sir!
False to whom?

edward. To me.

mrs. jesmond. To — to you!

edward. Why, madam, you know that I have loved you —
(she puts her hand to her heart with a quick motion) do love
you!

mrs. jesmond (tremblingly). Indeed, and indeed, Mr.
Fane !

edward (sternly). Hush! To deny it is a lie! (She makes
a movement, as if to escape, and again he detains her) Stay !
You shall hear me! (She sinks into the chair at the right of
the round table) I have loved you from the first moment
I saw you, when, on that evil day on which accident
brought me to this inn, and I checked my bridle at the
porch, you stood with your hand resting on my horse's
shoulder and your eyes drooped before mine. I have
loved you from that moment, I repeat; (accusingly) while
you, with the quick instinct that wakes intelligence in a
woman's brain, if not response within her bosom, have
divined my feelings and cruelly allowed me to foster them !

mrs. jesmond (weakly). I have oft been struck with the
idea that you are exceeding well-disposed towards me

edward. Well-disposed! Ah, do not prevaricate!

mrs. jesmond. But you have never spoke a word of love to
me, I do protest.

edward. Not expressly; for 'twas on the night previous to
the day on which I had intended to throw myself at your

34 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

feet that, returning from my bedchamber to fetch a letter,
I was startled by mysterious murmurs issuing from this
room.

mrs. jesmond (raising her head). Ah!

edward. Since then (pointing to the door on the landing) I
have listened there every Friday night

mrs. jesmond. Listened!

edward (abashed). I confess it — listened with my hand
upon the latch, lacking the courage to enter and perhaps
confirm the dreadful doubts that assailed me.

mrs. jesmond (scornfully). You do yourself scant justice,
Mr. Fane. You are full of courage to-night, sir, at any rate !

edward. Because I have to-night heard what I have not
hitherto clearly detected — the sound of a man's voice; and
have convinced myself that, aided by a specious but ill-
contrived stratagem, you are receiving a visitor clandes-
tinely. (She rises, standing before him with her head averted.
The wind swells again) Mrs. Jesmond, I set out for London
to-morrow, carrying with me recollections that will remain
with me till death — recollections of the hours we have
spent together in this apartment; hours of bliss, before I
mistrusted thee, and afterwards when your charms have
lulled me into the belief that the possessor of so fair an
exterior must be the most innocent, as you are assuredly
the most captivating, of your sex; hours of anguish, when
doubt hath gained supremacy and I have endured the
torments of the damned. Farewell! Did I desire retalia-
tion, 'twould be in the thought that at some future time
you will reproach yourself for having shaken beyond repair
the faith of one who would have crowned you with his
honour and esteem, adored you with his body, defended
you with his sword, and given you a heart to lean upon that
hath been touched by no other woman. 1 (Bowing low)
Madam !

mrs. jesmond (with a deep curtsey). Farewell, sir. (He goes

1 Compare Mr. George Napier's declaration to Lady Sarah in the "Life
and Letters of Lady Sarah Lennox."

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 35

towards the staircase. Suddenly, with a gasp, she runs to the
foot of the stairs and intercepts him) Ah, no! Mr. Fane !

edward (drawing back). Mrs. Jesmond!

mrs. jesmond. Mr. Fane, I cannot bear that we should part
thus. Edward! "Tis true; I am false and unworthy, as
you have accused me of being. But 'tis my — my secret
visitor that I am false to, and not to thee. (Coming closer
to him) Edward !

edward (repelling her with a gesture). Ah !

mrs. jesmond. Nay, don't put me from thee, for this once.
(Simply) Edward, I have known of thy love for me; I have
known it from the beginning. And, oh — Heaven pardon
me, my dear — (laying her head against him) — I have loved
that thou shouldst love me!

edward (after a struggle). Betty !

[lie folds her in his arms. The wind roars and the sign-board
screeches.

mrs. jesmond (feebly) . And now — enough. (Looking up at
him) Only I beg thee to glance up at my window as
you ride away tomorrow. Thou wilt do that for me,
Edward?

edward (in sudden fury) . Oh !

[He catches up the riding-cloak from the table in the bay of
the window, flings it aside, and seizes one of the pistols.

MRS. JESMOND. Pistols!

edward (examining the lock of the pistol) . They are Sir John
Hunslet's. (Grimly) He left them lying here, lest I
should encounter the wretch that hath obtained such a per-
nicious influence over thee.

mrs. jesmond (laughing ivildly). Ha, ha, ha, ha!

edward (grasping the pistol tightly). The villain — he that
visits thee — where is he hid?

mrs. jesmond. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thy bullet cannot harm
him. 'Twould but whistle through him and strike the wall.

edward (gripping her wrist). Collect thyself; thou art out
of thy senses!

mrs. jesmond (desperately). Am I! Thou shalt see! (Point-

36 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

ing to the hunting-horn) Unhook that horn from its nail
and bring it to me.

edward. The signal!

mrs. jesmond. What, hast thou heard that also ! (Hurriedly
he takes down the hunting-horn and hands it to her. Again she
blows upon it, and again the wind gives a mighty bellow, the
candles flicker, and the bluish light suffuses the rooms) Look !
[Following the direction of her eyes, he turns and finds the
Ghost at his elbow.

edward (under his breath). Merciful Powers! (The pistol
drops from his relaxed fingers and rattles on the stones of the
floor. Slowly, with measured tread and with its head bent, the
Ghost walks to the fireplace and stands there, gazing into the
fire. The force of the wind decreases) A ghost! A ghost!
A ghost!

mrs. jesmond (placing the horn upon the round table and ad-
dressing Edward in a hushed, steady voice). 'Tis my hus-
band's spirit, Mr. Fane. My grief called it to me in the
young days of my bereavement, and it hath visited me
since every week, and guided me in the conduct of my land
and property; (with a slight shiver) and 'tis my resolve to
remain as constant to this shadow as though 'twere blood
and bone. (Moving a little towards Edward) You have been
pleased to take a kindly interest in me, sir; and you will be
glad, I am sure, when you quit Wasdale, to reflect that the
poor widow that hath done her best for your comfort and
entertainment is not entirely alone. (Curtseying again)
Good-night. (Speechless, Edward backs away from her and
goes out at the door under the landing. She sees that the door
is closed and then advances timorously. The Ghost does not
stir) Er — I hope thou'rt not angry, Hal. 'Twas Mr. Fane
that interrupted us. He returned to this room for some
purpose, and our talk and laughter reached him as he was
opening the door. 'Twas indiscreet in us to speak so loud.
(Coming to the round table) But, la, 'tis no matter; he is a
person to be trusted! (Lightly, toying with her books and
papers) Beside — ha, ha ! — it hath afforded me the oppor-

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 37

tunity of hinting to my gentleman that, should he ever re-
visit Wasdale Head, 'twould be useless for him to pursue
thy Betty with his attentions, were he so minded. (Seating
herself at the table again) He doth depart to-morrow, I
thank the Lord! (Sorting her litter) What was it I was
about to ask thee? (Picking up a paper) Ah, yes; the
crooked field by Buckbarrow — ! ( The Ghost slowly turns
and faces her and she stares at it agape. Its form and features
have become less distinct) Why — how — how dim you are,
Harry !
ghost (harshly, but in fainter tones than before). Dim! 'Egad,
I should think so! Thou know'st that I owe this ghostly
existence o' mine only to thy love for me.

MRS. JESMOND. W-W-Well?

ghost. Well! Ha, ha! I marvel, after witnessing what hath
passed 'twixt you and Mr. Fane, that thou canst discern
me at all, Betty.

mrs. jesmond (aghast). Witnessing !

ghost. Aye. Did 'ee imagine I was out of eye-an'-ear-shot?

mrs. jesmond. Y-y-y-yes.

ghost. Not I. I've been wi' thee th' whole while. Ho, ho,
ho, ho! (There is a pause, and then Mrs. Jesmond, pressing
her temples, falls back in her chair with a groan) Nay, less,
'tis I that should be making a fuss; an', b' George, I would
too, but that thou hast diminished me to that degree that
I'm scarce capable of it!

mrs. jesmond (raising herself). Oh! Oh! (Dropping her out-
stretched arms upon the table and laying her head upon them)
Oh-h-h-h!

[The wind gives a sigh and the sign-board creaks sympa-
thetically.

ghost (wagging its head shakily). Ah, Bet, Bet, I own I've
never suspected you would sell me i' this fashion. (With
a low cry, she rises and throws herself at the Ghost's feet)
That thou shouldst prove such a smooth-tongued, double-
faced hypocrite! Dang it, that beats me, that had such a
vast knowledge o' women!

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

MRS. jesmoxd. Oh. hush, hush! Were I a hypocrite, and

merely feigning love for thee, there would be nothing of

thee visible. Harry; not a vestige. Piteously) Ah. I've

told thee already to-night, logic was never thy strong

int!

ghost - - " . Zounds. I suppose *iia possible for a
woman to love a live man an* yet ha' a softish feeling for
a dead one !

mrs. jesmoxd " eeprng). Oh! Oh!

ST. But 'tis plain. Betty, that thy love for Fane is
most

mrs. jesmoxd. Oh! Oh!

ghost. An' so. to preserve a morsel o' dignity, 'twould be
prudent o' me to bid thee good-bye before I fade from thee
completely.

mrs. jesmoxd. No, no. Hal! Listen! [Sitting up and clasp-
ing her hands supplier Oh. listen! The wind sighs
again and the - • Hal — Hal. when the grave
closed over thee. I did indeed believe that I was done with
love for ever, and that my heart was but a dry and withered
plant: but. oh. there are so sons when it will persist in put-
ting forth green shoots, and when I find strange hopes and
ys quickening within me that are unbefitting a woman
that is devoted to the memory of her dead husband! Alas,
Harry, 'twas at such a time that Mr. Fane came upon me!
Though 'twas in January that he alighted at my door, the
sun was shining in the valley, and our robins were chirping,
and there was a tremble of Spring in the air: and 'twas then.
when he had crossed my t. Id and I filled him a cup of
wine, and faced him while he drank — 'twas then that I
felt those green shoots in my breast burst and spread their
leaves. Wildly' But, oh. my dear, he is goinj. as you are
informed — he is going! — and 'tis not likely that he will
come my way again, nor that another young man of his
rank and character will ever resort to this lonely inn. And
so you must pardon me this one stumble: and by all that
I hold most sacred. Hal !

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 39

ghost (mournfully). Nay, nay, thou shalt make no more
promises. Thou hast perjured thyself enough as it is.

mrs. JESMOND. Perjured myself! Ah, yes! (Laying her head
in abasement upon the chair at the right of the round table)
Oh, Hal, Hal, Hal !

ghost. Ah, I perceive now — an' so dost thou, Bet — 'tis a
sad mistake for a widow in th' first flood of her grief to
call her husband back from his tomb. What we do in heat
we repent in cold. An' if 'tis so wi' widows in general, 'tis
especially so wi' thee, that are still but a girl. (She sobs)
Zooks, 'tis my fault for having answered thy cry ! I should
ha' had more brains; an' would ha' had, but that I lost
some in my accident. (She sobs again) So, come, dry thine
eyes. I tell 'ee I don't blame thee, nor bear thee malice;
no, nor him. (Attempting, with small success, to repeat his
pretence of snuffing) 'Tis th' way o' th' world. Ods-bobs,
who is missed in't! (Philosophically, flourishing his phan-
tom pocket-handkerchief) Why, I recollect losing my dog
Pincher when I was a bachelor, that died o' jaundice. How
I raved about 'un, an' stamped up an' down th' stable
where he lay stiff! But a week or two later I was buying
a couple o' pups at Gosforth fair, an' was in love wi' them,
an' forgot Pincher; an' th' following week I met thee, and
fell in love wi' thee, an' forgot th' pups. (Producing its
gloves and speaking in the tone of a person preparing to de-
part) Well, lass !

mrs. jesmoxd. Ah! (Turning swiftly, icith a hoarse scream)
Ah-h-h-h!

ghost (draicing on a glove). Perhaps 'tis all for th' best,
though 't has been a sore blow to my pride. (Hopefully)
'Egad, as I shall ride out no more, maybe 'twill settle th'
question o' my future, one way or tother !

mrs. jesmoxd (frantically). Harry! Harry !

ghost. Th' grey mare too ! She did but blunder once in her
life; 'tis rough on her, poor slut, to have had her rest broke
for a single slip.
[The wind roars again furiously, and the room darkens as

40 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD

the Ghost glides towards the window. Struggling to her
feet, Mrs. Jesmond staggers after the Ghost and tries to
clutch it.

mrs. jesmond. Harry ! No, no ! Hal ! Ah, I can't hold thee !
I can't hold thee! Oh!

ghost (softly). Coom, mare, coom! Coom, coom, coom!

mrs. jesmond. Wait! Wait — ! (The Ghost vanishes) Ah-
h-h-h! Comeback! Harry! My husband! (She rushes, still
crying out, to the stairs and gropes for the hunting-horn; then,
remembering that it is upon the round table, she flies to the table
and seizes it) Ah ! Harry! Harry! I love thee! I swear I love
thee! (She blows the horn and instantly the shutters disappear
and the Ghost is seen upon the grey mare, the wild country
beyond. Again the tvind bellows) Oh! Wait! Ah-h-h-h!
(Holding the reins in its left hand, the Ghost waves its right
hand in adieu; and then, with a hollow whoop, it claps its
spurs to the mare's sides, and horse and rider plunge into the
murk. The shutters reappear and the room is bright once more)
Oh, no! Thou'rt not gone! Thou'rt not gone! Harry!
(She puts the horn to her mouth again and blows a loud blast.
Then she runs about the room, searching and calling) Harry !
Harry! I want thee! Where are you? (Looking into the
space under the staircase) Are you there, Hal? (In the bay
of the window) Hal, I've something to ask thee! 'Tis im-
portant! (At the fireplace) Harry! Oh, Harry — ! (Sud-
denly, throwing the horn from her) Ah-h-h-h! He's gone!
He's gone!

[The door on the landing opens and Edward and Sir John
Hunslet appear.

edward. Mrs. Jesmond !

mrs. jesmond. He's gone! (To Edward) You have driven
him away ! I hate you ! I — ! Harry — !
[She topples to the ground. Edward and Sir John descend
the stairs rapidly and Edward, kneeling beside Mrs. Jesmond,
lifts her into his arms. The wind lessens.

edward. Mrs. Jesmond! Betty! Betty! (To Sir John, in
alarm) Oh, Jack !

THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 41

[Sir John takes the candlestick from the round table and bends
over Mrs. Jesmond.
sir john (quietly) . Tis only a swoon. {Carrying the candle-
stick, he moves to the lower door^ I'll go and rouse one of
her women. [The sign-board creaks.

THE END

THE GOAL

HENRY ARTHUR JONES

The work of Henry Arthur Jones is doubly significant.
In the first place, it marks the return of the best English dra-
matic traditions to the modern stage, for in spite of the inno-
vations preached by Mr. Jones so assiduously for over thirty
years, he remains in his best work a dramatist of the classical
school. "The Liars", "The Case of Rebellious Susan", and
"Dolly Reforming Herself", are genuine comedies, indige-
nously English, of the line of Sheridan and Goldsmith.

Henry Arthur Jones was born at Grandborough, Bucks,
in 1851. His early education was received in his native
district. He entered business at Bradford and was for
some years a commercial traveler. Before reaching the age
of thirty, however, he wrote his first play, "Only 'Round the
Corner", which was produced at Exeter in 1878. During the
succeeding four years he wrote a number of relatively un-
important plays. In 1882 he achieved his first and, in some
respects, his most brilliant success, with a melodrama, "The
Silver King", written in collaboration with Henry Herman.
This celebrated play has seen the footlights in many countries
and is still occasionally revived. "Saints and Sinners"
(1884) is Mr. Jones' first significant play; it was a landmark
in modern English drama, a work in which subject-
matter and treatment were primarily English, and not*—
as was usual at the time — of French origin.

Aside from his seventy plays, Henry Arthur Jones has
contributed a considerable mass of theory and propagandist
literature on the modern drama, setting high standards in

THE GOAL

dramatic art both for the dramatist and the public. To
him is due a great part of that impetus which has resulted
in what he himself calls the Renascence of the English drama.
Mr. Jones has written few one-act plays, but excepting
"The Goal" and "The Knife", his short plays are not of the
first importance. "The Goal", however, is an outstanding
example of his skill in extracting from a situation the last
ounce of its dramatic possibilities. The play is an incident,
simple and unified; the art with which it is unfolded is direct
and all-sufficient.

PLAYS

Plays marked with * are in one act only.

*Only 'Round the Corner

(1878)
*Hearts of Oak (1879)
*Harmony (1879)
*Elopement (1879)
*A Clerical Error (1879)
*An Old Master (1881)

His Wife (1881)

Home Again (1881)
*A Bed of Roses (1881)

The Silver King (1882)
(In collaboration with
Henry Herman)

Chatterton (1884)

Saints and Sinners (1884)

Hoodman Blind (1885)

The Lord Harry (1886)

The Noble Vagabond (1886)

Hard Hit (1887)

Heart of Hearts (1887)

Wealth (1889)

The Middleman (1889)

Judah (1890)

*SweetWill (1890)
*The Deacon (1890)
The Dancing Girl (1891)
The Crusaders (1891)
The Bauble Shop (1893)
The Tempter (1893)
The Masqueraders (1894)
The Case of Rebellious Su-
san (1894)
The Triumph of the Philis-
tines (1895)
Michael and his Lost Angel

(1896)
The Rogue's Comedy (1896)
The Physician (1897)
The Liars (1897)
*GraceMary (1898)
The Manoeuvres of Jane

(1898)
Carnac Sahib (1899)
The Lackey's Carnival

(1900)
Mrs. Dane's Defence (1900)

THE GOAL 45

The Princess's Nose (1902) We Can't Be As Bad As All
Chance The Idol (1902) That (1910)

Whitewashing Julia (1903) *The Knife (1910)

Joseph Entangled (1904) The Ogre (1911)

The Chevaleer (1904) Lydia Gilmore (1912)

The Heroic Stubbs (1906) The Divine Gift (1912)

The Hypocrites (1906) Mary Goes First (1913)

The Goal (1907) The Lie (1914)

The Evangelist (1907) Cock o' The Walk (1915)

Dolly Reforming Herself *Her Tongue (1915)

(1908) The Pacifists (1917)

*Fall In, Rookies! (1910)

"Harmony", "Elopement", "Hearts of Oak", "A Clerical
Error", "An Old Master", "A Bed of Roses", "The Deacon",
"Sweet Will", "Joseph Entangled", "The Silver King",
"The Dancing Girl", "The Hypocrites", "Mrs. Dane's
Defence", "The Case of Rebellious Susan", "The Liars",
"The Masqueraders", "Dolly Reforming Herself", "The
Tempter", "The Manoeuvres of Jane", "Judah", "The
Physician", "Whitewashing Julia", "The Rogue's Comedy",
"The Triumph of the Philistines", and "Mary Goes First"
are published separately by Samuel French, New York; "The
Crusaders", "Michael and his Lost Angel", and "Carnac
Sahib" separately by Macmillan Company, New York; "The
Divine Gift" and "The Lie" separately by George H. Doran
Company, New York; and "The Goal", "Her Tongue", and
"Grace Mary", in "The Theater of Ideas", by the same.

References: George Moore, "Impressions and Opinions",
Brentano's, New York; Clayton Hamilton, "The Theory of
the Theater", Henry Holt and Company, New York;
Brander Matthews, "A Study of the Drama", Houghton,
Mifflin Company, Boston; Henry Arthur Jones, "The Re-
nascence of the English Drama", Macmillan, New York;
"The Foundations of a National Drama", Doran; Introduc-
tion to Brunetiere's "The Law of the Drama", Dramatic
Museum of Columbia University; and prefaces to "The

46 THE GOAL

Theater of Ideas", "The Divine Gift", and "The Case of
Rebellious Susan."

Magazines: North American Review, vol. clxxxvi, p. 205,
New York; The Reader, vol. ix, p. 105, New York; Blackwood's,
vol. xciv, p. 283, London.

THE GOAL

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES

"The Goal" was first produced at London in 1897.

Characters

Sir Stephen Famariss, the great Engineer
Daniel Famariss, his son, Engineer
Sir Lydden Crane, M.D.
Adams, Sir Stephen's Butler
Peggie Lovel
Nurse Clandon

Scene: Sir Stephen's bedroom in Belgravia.
Time: 1897.

Copyright, 1915, by George H. Doran Company.
Reprinted by permission of author and publisher, from "The Theatre of Ideas",
published by George H. Doran Company.

Note. The acting rights of this play are fully protected in all countries. Legal
proceedings will be taken against anyone who attempts to infringe them. Application
for terms for professional dramatic performances in America and Canada should be ad-
Iressed to The American Play Company, iEolian Building, 33 West 42nd St., New
York. For amateur performances to Samuel French, Publisher, 28 West 38th Street,
New York.

THE GOAL

Scene. The dressing room of Sir Stephen Famariss, Bel-
grave Square. A very richly furnished apartment, with every
evidence of wealth and luxury. Up stage right an archway, set
diagonally, shows a bedroom beyond with foot of brass bedstead
placed sideways to audience. The bedroom is dimly lighted.
A large bow-window, rather deeply recessed, runs along the left
at back, and looks across a courtyard to another house, whose
windows are brilliantly lighted. Figures dancing are seen mov-
ing across the windows in accordance with indications given
through the play. Between archway and window a large hand-
some bureau. A door left down stage. Down stage right, fire-
place with fire burning. A mirror over fireplace. A large com-
fortable sofa down stage right. A table left of sofa near centre
of stage, with bottle of champagne and glasses on it. Another
table up stage left above door. Upon it medicine bottles, spirit
lamp, and other paraphernalia of a sick room. A large pier
looking-glass up stage above sofa. Other furniture as required,
all indicating great wealth and comfort. Time, about ten on an
April evening. Discover on sofa, asleep, Sir Stephen Famariss.
A rug is thrown over him, and his head is buried in a pillow, so
that nothing is seen of him but a figure under the rug. Nurse
Clandon, in nurse's costume, about thirty, is seated in chair at
table, reading. The door, left, is very softly opened, and Sir
Lydden Crane enters, a little, dry, shrewd, wizened old man
about seventy, with manners of a London physician. Nurse
rises and puts down her book.

crane. Well? How has he been all the afternoon?
nurse. Just as usual. He won't keep quiet. About an

hour ago he fell asleep. [Pointing to Sir Stephen.

crane. Mr. Daniel Famariss has not arrived?

50 THE GOAL

nurse. No. He sent another telegram for him this even-
ing. And he keeps on asking for the evening papers.

crane. Well?

nurse. I've kept them from him. They all have long ac-
counts of his illness. (Talcing an evening paper from under
the table cover, giving it to Crane) Look!

crane (taking paper, reading). "Sir Stephen Famariss, the

great engineer, is dying " Hum!

[A very gentle knock is heard at door left. Nurse goes to it,
opens it. Adams comes in a step.

adams. I beg pardon. Mrs. Lovel has sent in to ask how
Sir Stephen is; and to say that she's very sorry the ball-
room is so near his bedroom; and if the noise of the ball
will upset Sir Stephen, she'll be very pleased to put it off,
and send her guests away?

nurse. What do you think, Sir Lydden?

crane. All excitement is very dangerous for Sir Stephen.
The next attack may be fatal. Will you give my compli-
ments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that since she is so kind I
will beg her to postpone the ball?

[Sir Stephen stirs, throws off the quilt. He is in a rich dress-
ing-gown. A wiry, handsome, very intellectual-looking man
about seventy-five; well-seasoned, vigorous frame; pale, sharp,
strong features, showing signs of great recent pain.

sir Stephen. Will you give my compliments to Mrs. Lovel,
and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to do nothing
of the kind. What rubbish, Crane! Because I happen to
be dying, to stop the innocent pleasure of a couple of
hundred young people! Thank Mrs. Lovel very much,
Adams, for sending in, and say that I'm not at all sure that
I shall die to-night; but that if I do, her dancing won't in
the least interfere with my dying, and I hope she won't
allow my dying to interfere with her dancing. I very
much wish the ball to take place. (Very imperiously) It's
not to be put off! You understand?

adams. Yes, Sir Stephen. [Going.

sir Stephen. And, Adams, give my compliments to Mrs.

THE GOAL 51

Lovel, and say that if she doesn't mind, I should like to
see Miss Lovel in her ball dress for a moment before the
ball. Say that I'm quite presentable, and I won't frighten
Miss Lovel. [Exit Adams.

sir Stephen. Well, Crane, am I going off this time?

crane. This last attack coming so quickly after the other
is very alarming and — very dangerous.

sir Stephen. Yes, but am I going to pull through again, or
must I put up the shutters?

crane. Well — well

sir Stephen (seeing paper on table where Crane has put it).
Is that to-night's paper? (No reply) Give it to me.

crane (deprecatingly). Famariss

sir Stephen. Give it to me.
[Crane gives it to him reluctantly .

sir Stephen (reading from paper). "Alarming illness of
Sir Stephen Famariss. Angina Pectoris. Fatal symp-
toms. Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is dy-
ing " There's nothing like making sure of your facts.

crane. Too sure!

sir Stephen (drily). So I think. What do you say? How
long am I going to live?

crane. Well

sir Stephen. Come out with it, old friend. I'm not afraid
to hear.

crane. With the greatest care, I see no reason why you
shouldn't live some weeks — or months.

sir Stephen. Shall I live long enough to carry out my Mil-
ford Haven scheme? Tell me the truth.

crane. No. You certainly won't.

sir Stephen (shows intense disappointment). You're sure?

crane. I'm sure.

sir Stephen. But I shall live long enough to start it, to put
it into other hands, into my son's hands — if the rebellious
fool will only learn wisdom and make it up with me before
I die. I shall live long enough for that?

crane. No. I fear not.

52 THE GOAL

sir Stephen (going to bureau). But I've got a third of it
on paper. (Taking out plans) I've kept it here. I've
worked at it when I couldn't sleep. If I can last out an-
other six months, I can do it. Come, Crane, don't be
stingy. Give me another six months! Eh?

crane. Famariss, you won't last six months even with the
greatest care. You may not last six weeks

sir Stephen. Nor six days?

crane. Nor six days.

sir Stephen. Nor six hours?

CRANE. Oh !

sir Stephen. Nor six hours. Thank you. I'm prepared.

crane. Your son hasn't come yet?

sir Stephen. No. I've telegraphed him twice — and my
terms.

crane. Is it worth while — of course, you know best — is it
worth while to stick out for terms when ?

sir Stephen. When one is in face of death. Yes — on a
matter of principle. If Dan comes here, he comes on my
terms. I'll keep my word; I won't set eyes on him — he
shan't pass that door until he owns he was wrong.

crane. But

sir Stephen (getting excited). But he was wrong. He was
wrong, and no power on earth shall make me

crane (soothing him). Hush! If he does come, you must
avoid all excitement in meeting him. Your only chance
of prolonging your life is to keep absolutely quiet. You
must lay up all day

sir Stephen. Lay up all day! Don't talk nonsense!

crane. If you don't

sir Stephen. If I don't

crane. You may die at any moment.

sir Stephen. But if I do, I'm dead already. No, Crane,
I'll live to my last moment, whenever it comes. When I
do take to my bed, I'll take to it once for all, in the church-
yard, beside my Peggie! (Very softly, very tenderly, half
to himself) My Peggie! My Peggie! If I do go off, I

THE GOAL 53

shall see her again, I suppose — if it isn't all moonshine!
Open the window, Nurse! It's getting hot here! (The
Nurse opens window) Open that champagne, Crane, and
pour yourself out a glass, and pour me out a glass. My
Peggie! My Peggie! I wonder if it is all moonshine!
[The musicians in the ballroom opposite begin to tune up their
fiddles. Nurse comes doivn.

sir Stephen. That's right! Tune up! Tune up! And
Peggie Lovel promised me the first dance ! Tune up !

nurse. You must keep quiet

sir Stephen (pettishly). Runaway! Runaway!

[Crane makes Nurse a sign, and she goes off into bedroom.
Crane has opened the champagne and poured out two glasses.
He brings one to Sir Stephen.

sir Stephen. It's the eighty-four Saint Marceaux. I've
left you half what's left of this, Crane, and I've left my
mule of a boy the other half. He's my heir. I won't
see him ; no, not if I

crane. Hush ! Hush !

sir Stephen. I won't see him unless he submits. But I've
left him every penny, except what goes to charities and
churches. It's very puzzling to know what to do with
one's money, Crane. I've left a heap to charities, and
I've squared all the churches. I hope it won't do much
harm. (A little chuckle) There's one thing I regret in
dying, Crane : I shan't be able to hear my funeral sermons.
But you will

crane. Don't make too sure. I may go off first; but if I
am doomed, I hope the oratory will be of as good a vintage
as this.

sir Stephen. It ought to be, considering what I've left them
all. Give them a hint, Crane, not to whitewash my sep-
ulchre with any lying cant. Don't let them make a
plaster-of -Paris saint of me! I won't have it! I won't
have it! I've been a man, and never less than a man.
I've never refused to do the work that came, in my way,
and, thank God, I've never refused to taste a pleasure.

54 THE GOAL

And I've had a rare good time in this rare good world. I
wish I'd got to live it all over again!

crane. You do?

sir Stephen. Yes; every moment of it, good and evil,
pleasure and pain, love and work, success and failure, youth
and age, I'd fill the cup again, and I'd drain it to the dregs
if I could. You wouldn't?

crane. No. Once is enough for me.

sir Stephen. You see, Crane, before starting in life, I took
the one great step to secure success and happiness.

crane. What's that?

sir Stephen. I made an excellent choice of my father and
mother. Not rich. Not aristocratic. But a good, sound,
healthy stock on both sides. What's the cause of all the
weak, snivelling pessimism we hear? What's the cause of
nine-tenths of the misery around us — ruined lives; shat-
tered health; physical, moral, intellectual beggary? What's
the cause of doctors' bills?

crane. Well, what is?

sir Stephen. Men and women exercise no care in choosing
their fathers and mothers. You doctors know it! You
doctors know it! Once choose your father and mother
wisely, and you can play all sorts of tricks with your con-
stitution. You can drink your half bottle of champagne
at seventy -five and enjoy it! Another glass!

crane. No, I must be going! (Rising) And (tapping bot-
tle) you mustn't take any more.

sir Stephen. Don't talk nonsense! Sit down! Sit down!
Another glass! Hobnob, man; hobnob! Life's but a
span! Why, this may be the last time, eh?

crane. Any time may be the last time. Any moment
may be the last moment.

sir Stephen. Well, then, let's enjoy the last moment! I
tell you, Crane, I'm ready. All my affairs are in perfect
order. I should have liked to finish that Milford Haven
scheme; but if it isn't to be — (deep sigh) — Hobnob, man;
hobnob !

THE GOAL 55

crane. What a lovely wine!

sir Stephen. Isn't it? I remember Goethe says that the
man who drinks wine is damned, but the man who drinks
bad wine is doubly damned. Pray God you and I may
be only damned once, Crane.

crane. Oh, that's past praying for — in my case !

sir Stephen. Eighty -four! I was boring a hole through
the Rockies that summer — ah, Crane, what glorious sum-
mers I've had! — seventy-five glorious golden summers —
and now — Hobnob, man; hobnob! You've had a good
innings, too, Crane.

crane. Hum! Pretty fair. I eat well, drink well, sleep
well, get my early morning jog in the Park and enjoy it,
get my two months on the moors, and enjoy them. I feel
as fit to-day as I did thirty years ago. There's only one
pleasure that fails me — (with a grimace at Sir Stephen) —
Gone ! Gone ! Gone !

sir Stephen. Don't fret about that! We thought it a
pleasure, old crony, while it lasted. Now it's gone, let's
call it a plague and a sin, and thank God for giving us a
little peace in our old age. Ah, dear, dear, what a havoc
women have made of the best half of my life; but —
(brightening) — I've left some good work behind me, in
spite of the hussies! And, thank Heaven, my throat has
held out to the last. [Drinking.

crane (drinking). And mine!

sir Stephen. Crane, what was that joke that came up at
poor Farley's funeral?

crane. Joke?

sir Stephen. Don't you remember while we were waiting for
them to bring dear old Farley downstairs, Maidment began
telling that story about the geese and the Scotch-boy

crane. Yes, yes; to be sure! [Beginning to laugh.

sir Stephen. And just as we were enjoying the joke, we
suddenly remembered where we were, and you pulled us
up, and spoilt the joke!

crane. Yes, yes, I remember.

56 THE GOAL

sir Stephen. Crane, if Maidment tells that story at my

funeral, don't pull him up

crane. Eh?

sir Stephen. It's a good joke, man ! Don't waste it ! Have

your laugh out, and say from me that, other conditions

being favourable, I'm enjoying it as heartily as any of

you! You will, eh? You will?
crane. Yes, I will! I will!

[They both laugh a little. Adams opens door left, and comes

in a step.
adams. Miss Lovel has come, Sir Stephen.
sir Stephen. Show her in, Adams. [Exit Adams.

crane. I must be going.

[Reenter Adams, showing in Peggie Lovel, a debutante of

eighteen, in her first ball dress; radiant, excited, beautifully

dressed, a vision of girlish loveliness. She is frivolous and

self-conscious, and full of little airs and graces, constantly

glancing at herself in the two mirrors.
adams (announcing). Miss Lovel. [Exit Adams.

sir Stephen. Come in, Peggie. I mustn't call you Peggie

any more. Come in, Miss Lovel.
peggie. Mamma said you would like to see me for a minute

before the ball!
sir Stephen. If you don't mind.

peggie. How d'ye do, Sir Lydden? [Shaking hands.

crane. How d'ye do, Miss Lovel? Good night, Sir Stephen.

[Holding out hand.
sir Stephen. Don't go, old chum.

[Taking his hand, retaining it, keeping Crane.
crane. I must. (Taking out watch) I have a consultation

at eleven.
sir Stephen (piteously). Don't go, old chum.
crane. It's really pressing. It's Lord Albert Swale. He

won't last till the morning.
sir Stephen. Don't go. I may be meeting him soon, and

I'll make your apologies. (Very piteously) Don't go, old

chum!

THE GOAL 57

crane. I must. {Nurse enters from bedroom) Nurse, I
want a word with you downstairs. (Nurse crosses to left,
and exit. To Sir Stephen) I'll look in, the first thing in
the morning.

sir Stephen. Do. You'll find me — at home.

crane. Good night. Good night, Miss Lovel.

peggie. Good night, Sir Lydden.

crane (in a low tone to Peggie). You mustn't stay long, and
you mustn't let Sir Stephen excite himself. (To Sir
Stephen) I'd rather see you in bed

sir Stephen (very impatiently). Tut! Tut! Tut! I won't
be buried before I'm dead. (Rather curtly) Good night.
(Crane waits. Imperiously) Good night ! (Crane is going)
And, Crane, remember — no whitewash on my sepulchre!
[Exit Crane, left. Peggie meantime has taken off her cloak.
All through she is eager and excited, glances at herself in the
glasses very often.

peggie. I'm so sorry you're ill, Sir Stephen.

sir Stephen. I'm not ill, my dear. The old machine seems
just as strong and tough as ever, only — it's gone "crack"
in a weak place. Well, I've knocked it about all over
the world for seventy-five years, and if it hadn't gone
crack in one place, I suppose it would in another. Never
mind me. Let's talk about you. Go and stand there,
and let me look at you.

peggie (displaying her dress). Do you like me? Do you
like my dress?

sir Stephen. It's a triumph!

peggie (chattering on). You can't imagine what trouble
mamma and I have taken over it. Long sleeves are com-
ing in for evening wear. So I had long sleeves at first.
I was all sleeves. So I had them taken out and short
sleeves put in. The dressmaker made a horrible muddle
of them. So we tried long sleeves again. I looked a
perfect fright!

sir Stephen. I won't believe it.

peggie. Yes, I did, I assure you. So at the last moment

58 THE GOAL

I had the long sleeves taken out and the short sleeves

dodged up with lace. Which do you like best? Long

sleeves or short sleeves?
sir Stephen. Long sleeves for ugly arms — short sleeves for

beautiful arms!
peggie (frowning at him and shaking her head). Ah! What

do you think of the bodice?
sir Stephen. Enchanting!
peggie. It is rather neat, isn't it?
sir Stephen. Neat? I should call it gorgeous!
peggie. Oh, you must see the one I've got for the Lard-

ner's dance next Monday. Would you like to see it?
sir Stephen. Very much — on Monday.
peggie. I'll run in for a moment before I go.

SIR STEPHEN. Do.

peggie. That's a square-cut bodice. This is a round-cut
bodice. Which do you like best? Round-cut bodices, or
square-cut bodices?

sir Stephen. To-night I like round-cut bodices. On Mon-
day I think I shall prefer square-cut bodices.

peggie. I think I prefer a square-cut bodice. I had a
square-cut bodice to this at first. I looked a perfect
monster, so I had it taken out and this round-cut bodice
put in. I'm not sure that it's quite right now, and I've
tried it on fifty times — I'm worrying you to death.

sir Stephen. No ! no!

peggie. Yes, I am, and I can't stay five minutes. Are
you sure you wouldn't rather have the ball put off? We
will put it off even now, if you wish.

sir Stephen. Not for the world! not for the world!

peggie. That's so good of you! But I really think you'll
be better to-morrow. I'm sure you will. You aren't
really very ill, are you? Do you like this embroidery?
[Pointing to trimming on her skirt.

sir Stephen. It's beautiful! Isn't it Indian work?

peggie. Yes; handmade. It took a man twelve or fifteen
years to make this one strip.

THE GOAL 59

sir Stephen. A quarter of a lifetime to decorate you for a
few hours. It was time well spent. Ah, Peggie, that's
the sum and meaning of all our toil and money-grubbing!

peggie. What is?

sir Stephen. To make our women-folk beautiful. It all
comes to that in the end. Let Nature and Art knock
their heads together till doomsday, they'll never teach
one another any finer trick than to show a beautiful
maiden to a handsome young fellow, or a handsome young
fellow to a beautiful maiden.

[Peggie has got behind him and is admiring herself in the
glass.

peggie. Really! Really! Yes, I suppose you're right.
You're sure I'm not worrying you

sir Stephen. No, no. Don't go. I'm quite at leisure now
to the end of my life.

peggie. Oh, you mustn't talk like that! So I may tell
mamma that you like my dress? What do you think of
the skirt?

sir Stephen. Isn't there too much trimming on it?

peggie. Oh, no! Oh, no!

sir Stephen. Yes, there's too much trimming.

peggie. Oh, no! Oh, no! The dressmaker said there wasn't
enough.

sir Stephen. Stupid hussies, dressmakers! They're like
other folks! They're always the last to know anything
about their own business. Tell your dressmaker that
simplicity is the keynote of a great style in dressmaking,
and engineering — subtle simplicity. The next time she is
going to make you a dress, tell her to take a walk through
our National Gallery

peggie. Oh, Sir Stephen, you surely wouldn't dress me like
those old guys in the National Gallery! What would my
partners say?

sir Stephen. Your partners! Ah, you pretty tyrant, you'll
turn a great many heads, and set a great many hearts
beating to-night!

60 THE GOAL

peggie. Shall I? Shall I?

sir Stephen. Why, you've set my old worn-out heart flut-
tering, and, goodness knows, it ought to have done beating
for pretty girls at seventy-five — it ought to know better
at seventy -five ! But it doesn't, and — (rising with great
determination) — I've a great mind

peggie (a little alarmed). Sir Stephen, what are you going
to do?

sir Stephen. Don't you remember your promise?

peggie. My promise?

sir Stephen. Your birthday party six years ago! You
danced with me, and you promised that I should be your
first partner at your first ball after you came out !

peggie. Of course — I'd forgotten!

sir Stephen. But I hadn't! Will you keep your promise,
Peggie? Will you keep your promise?

peggie. Wouldn't it be dangerous, and — you don't really
wish it?

sir Stephen (sinking down). You're right, my dear. I'm
foolish with old age. Forgive me!

peggie. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But you'll be able
to see us dancing across the garden. You can stand at
that window and look on.

sir Stephen. Look on ! That's all I'm fit for now — to look
on at life !
[Turning away his head.

peggie. Sir Stephen, what's the matter?

sir Stephen. I've always been in the thick of the fight,
Peggie. And I feel to-night as strong as ever I did, and
they tell me I must lay up and look on — (rising with great
energy and determination) — I won't ! I won't !

peggie. Sir Stephen.

sir Stephen. I can't bear it, Peggie. I've enjoyed my life,
and I don't want to leave it. I want to live, and five, and
live — and I will! Ah, what a selfish old coward I am!
I'm like a man who has sat down to a good table d'hote,
and eaten and drunk his fill, and now the host tells me my

THE GOAL Gl

place is wanted for another guest, I cry out and want to
have my dinner over again ! Don't take any notice of me,
dear. Tell me about your partners. Who's going to
dance with you to-night?

peggie. Oh, I suppose Mr. Lascellcs, Freddie Lister, Lord
Doverbury, Johnny Butler, Sir Egerton Wendover, Dick
French — amongst others.

sir Stephen. Peggie

peggie. Yes

sir Stephen. You won't misunderstand me, dear. I'm old
enough to be your grandfather. {Takes her hand very
tenderly) You won't misunderstand me. {Very seri-
ously) Take care how you choose your partner for life.
You'll have a wide choice, and all your future happiness,
and the happiness of many generations to come, will de-
pend on the one moment when you say "Yes" to one of
the scores of young fellows who'll ask you to be his wife.
Take care, dear! Take care! Look him thoroughly up
and down! Be sure that he has a good full open eye that
can look you straight in the face; and be sure that the
whites of his eyes are clear. Take care he hasn't got a
queer-shaped head, or a low forehead. A good round
head, and a good full high forehead, do you hear? Notice
the grip of his hand when he shakes hands with you!
Take care it's strong and firm, and not cold and dry. No
young man should have a cold, dry hand. Don't say
"Yes" till you've seen him out of trousers, in riding dress,
or court dress. Look at the shape of his legs — a good,
well-shaped leg, eh, Peggie? And take care it is his leg!
See that he's well-knit and a little lean, not flabby; doesn't
squint; doesn't stammer; hasn't got any nervous tricks or
twitchings. Don't marry a bald man ! They say we shall
all be bald in ten generations. Wait ten generations,
Peggie, and then don't marry a bald man! Can you re-
member all this, dear? Watch his walk! See that he
has a good springy step, and feet made of elastic — can do
his four or five miles an hour without turning a hair.

62 THE GOAL

Don't have him if he has a cough in the winter or the spring.
Young men ought never to have a cough. And be sure
he can laugh well and heartily — not a snigger, or a wheeze,
or a cackle, but a good, deep, hearty laugh right down
from the bottom of his chest. And if he has a little money,
or even a good bit, so much the better! There now! You
choose a man like that, Peggie, and I won't promise
you that you'll be happy, but if you're not, it won't
be your fault, and it won't be his, and it won't be
mine !

peggie. Very well, Sir Stephen, I'll try and remember.

sir Stephen. Do, my dear, do! It's a good legacy, my
dear. I've left you another. You won't be disappointed
when my will's read

peggie. Oh, Sir Stephen !

sir Stephen. No, you won't; but remember my advice
to-night. That's the best wedding present for any
girl.

peggie. Very well, Sir Stephen ! I must be going. Good-bye.
[Giving her hand.

sir Stephen. Yes, I suppose you mustn't stay. {Taking
her hand, keeping it as he had kept Crane's, as if he couldn't
bear to let her go) Good-bye.

[Looking longingly at her with a mute entreaty to stay. Peggie
draws her hand away, puts on cloak, and goes to door, left.
He watches her all the while.

peggie (at door, runs back to him). Sir Stephen, I'll keep
my promise. You shall be my first partner. (Offering
her card) Write your name down for my first dance.

sir Stephen. But I shan't be there.

peggie. I'll sit out, and keep it for you.

SIR STEPHEN. No, no

peggie. Yes, yes! I insist. Put your name down!

[He writes on her card. Enter Nurse, left.
peggie. Good-bye, Sir Stephen.
sir Stephen. Good-bye, Peggie! (Softly) Peggie! Her

name was Peggie! My wife's name was Peggie!

THE GOAL 63

[She bends and kisses his forehead; then goes to door, turns
and looks at him.

peggie. Au 'voir.

[Blows him a kiss and exit. Sir Stephen looks longingly
after her, walks a little up and doivn the room.

Nurse (anxiously). Sir Stephen, don't you think you might
lie down now?

sir Stephen. Run away! Run away!

nurse. Won't you rest a little on the sofa?

sir Stephen. Run away ! Run away !

nurse. Can I get you anything?

sir Stephen. Run away ! Run away! (Pacing up and
down) Mr. Daniel Famariss hasn't come yet?

nurse. No. You know they said that he was away survey-
ing in an out-of-the-way country, where no message could
reach him.

sir Stephen. If he should come too late, tell him — tell him
— I've gone surveying in an out-of-the-way country —
where no message can reach me! (Changing tone) Dear
me, Nurse, I'm afraid this dying is going to be a very
tiresome business for both of us!

nurse. Oh, Sir Stephen, I'm sure I don't mind!

sir Stephen. You don't mind? That's very good of you.
You're in no hurry? Well, neither am I.

nurse. Sir Stephen, don't you think

SIR STEPHEN. What?

nurse. Last night you said you'd send for a clergyman.

sir Stephen. Did I? That was at two o'clock in the morn-
ing. How horribly demoralized a man gets at two o'clock
in the morning!

nurse. But, Sir Stephen

SIR STEPHEN. Well?

nurse. Don't you think you ought to begin to think of

better things?
sir Stephen. Well. I'm seventy-five. Perhaps it is nearly

time. What better things?
nurse. Death and — judgment.

64 THE GOAL

sir Stephen. Don't talk nonsense. I don't call death and
judgment better things.

nurse. But, Sir Stephen — you will be judged.

sir Stephen. Judged? Yes. But I shan't be judged by
the prayers I've said, and the psalms I've sung. I shan't
be judged by the lies I've told, and the deceits I've prac-
tised, and the passions I've given way to. I shan't be
judged by the evil and rottenness in me. No; I shall be
judged by the railways I've made, and the canals I've
scooped, and the bridges I've built — and let me tell you,
my dear creature, my accounts are in good order, and
ready for inspection at any moment, and I believe there's
a good balance on my side. (Guests have been assembling
in the ballroom. Dance music bursts out. Dancing begins)
Ah! What tune is that?

[Goes up to windoiv, begins dancing a few steps, swaying with
the music.

nurse (frightened). Sir Stephen! Sir Stephen!

sir Stephen. Run a way ! Run away!

nurse. Sir Stephen, you wouldn't be found dancing at the
end?

sir Stephen. Why not? I've done my work! Why shouldn't
I play for a little while? (A bell is heard) Hark ! The front
door bell

nurse. Yes.
[Goes to door, left.

sir Stephen. Go downstairs and see if that's my son. If

it is, tell him

[Gentle knock at door, left. Adams enters a step. The dancing
and music are continued in the ballroom.

adams. I beg pardon, Sir Stephen. Mr. Daniel Famariss
has arrived

SIR STEPHEN. All!

[Getting excited.
adams. And would like to see you.
sir Stephen. Tell him he knows the conditions.
nurse. But, Sir Stephen

THE GOAL 65

sir Stephen. Run away, my good soul! Run away. (To
Adams) He knows the conditions. If he accepts them, I
shall be pleased to see him.

dan (voice outside door). Father!

sir Stephen. Shut that door!

[Adams nearly closes door, which is kept open a few inches
from the other side.

dan (outside). Father! You won't shut the door in my
face?

sir Stephen. Keep on that side of it, then. Adams, you
can go. Leave the door ajar.

[Exit Adams, left. Sir Stephen, with an imperious gesture,
points Nurse to archway right. Exit Nurse, into bedroom,
with an appealing gesture to Sir Stephen.

sir Stephen (goes to door, left; it is still open a few inches).
Are you there, Dan?

dan (outside). Yes, father.

sir Stephen. I vowed I'd never set eyes on you again, till
you owned you were wrong about those girders. You were
wrong? (No reply) You were wrong? (No reply) Do you
hear? Confound you, you know you were wrong! (No
reply) Do you hear, Dan? Why won't you say you were
wrong? You won't! (Slains door, goes right, has an outburst
of anger, recovers, listens, goes back to door, opens it a little)
Are you there, Dan?

dan (outside). Yes, father.

sir Stephen. You were wrong, Dan. (No reply) I haven't
got long to live, Dan. It's angina pectoris, and the next
attack will kill me. It may come at any moment. (Very
piteously) Dan, you were wrong? Why won't you say so?
Even if you tell a lie about it?

dan (outside). I was wrong.

sir Stephen. Ah! (Flings open the door, Dan runs in. Sir
Stephen meets him, embraces him affectionately, with a half
sob) Why didn't you say it before? You knew how much
I loved you. W'hy did you keep apart from me all these
years?

66 THE GOAL

dan. I'm sorry, sir. But perhaps it was for the best. I've
done very well.

sir Stephen. Of course you have. You're my son. But
how much better you'd have done if you had stuck
to me! How much better we both should have done!
I'm sorry, too, Dan. I was wrong, too — not about
the girders. You were wrong about them, Dan. But
I was wrong to be angry and to swear I wouldn't
see you. Ah, what could I have done with you
at my side! I could have carried out my Milford
Haven scheme. Perhaps it isn't too late! (Going to
bureau, getting more and more excited) I've got all the

plans here

[Talcing out a heap of plans.

dan. Not now, father; not now!

sir Stephen. Yes, now, my boy! To-morrow may be too
late! (Going to table) Come here, my lad! Oh, Dan,
what years we've wasted! Come here! I want you to
carry this out. You'll have immense opposition. Beat it
down ! You'll have to buy Shad well and his lot. They're
a dirty gang. But you'll have to do it. I hate bribery,
Dan; but when you've got to do it, do it thoroughly!
Then there's Mincham. Buy him over, if you can, at a
small figure — say a thousand pounds — he's a mean little
cur; but offer him that, and if he won't take it, snap your
fingers at him, and swamp him ! Remember the trick, the
scoundrel's trick, he served me over the granite for the
viaduct. Remember it, Dan, and don't spare him!
Swamp him! Swamp him!*
[With great energy of hate.

dan. Father

sir Stephen. Bring your chair up. I must go on now —
while it's all before me! I want you to carry this Milford
Haven scheme out! I want it to be said that what old
Stephen Famariss couldn't do, young Dan Famariss could !
The father was a great man, the son shall be a greater, eh?
* 1 Kings, chap, ii., verses 8, 9.

THE GOAL G7

Look here, you must start on this side. I've had all the
soundings made

dan. To-morrow, father; to-morrow!

sir Stephen. No, now! There's no such thing as to-
morrow! We'll go through it now — in case There's

a great world-tussle coming, Dan — I shan't live to see it —
but it's coming, and the engineer that ties England and
America will do a good turn to both countries. England to
America in four days! I want that crown to rest on your
head ! Look ! You must begin here ! Look ! Just there !

You must throw a bridge over

[Stops suddenly, puts his hand to his heart; his face indicates
intense agony. Nurse enters from bedroom.

dan. Father

sir Stephen (persisting, with a wild aimless gesture). Throw
a bridge from here — to the other side, and then

dan. Father, what is it?

sir Stephen. The end, Dan. (His face shows that he is
suffering great pain. A great burst of dance music. They
offer to support him. He waves them off) No, thank you.
I'll die standing. England to America in four days.
(Long pause. He stands bolt upright with great determina-
tion) You were wrong about those girders, Dan — My
Peggie — I wonder if it's all moonshine — Peggie — My

Peggie

[Dies, tumbles over table. Music and dancing in ballroom
louder than ever.

CURTAIN.

SALOME

OSCAR WILDE

Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin in 1854. His early-
education was received in his native country; after three
years at Trinity College, Dublin, he completed his academic
course at Oxford. While still at Oxford his reputation as a
wit and an "esthete" had begun to spread, and when in
1881 he published his first book, a volume of poems, he was
already famous. His first play, "Vera, or the Nihilists",
appeared two years afterward. "The Duchess of Padua", a
verse tragedy, followed in 1891. In 1884 Wilde married, and
devoted his time entirely to writing, editorial work, and lec-
turing. The important plays — " Lady Windermere's Fan ",
"A Woman of No Importance", "An Ideal Husband", and
"The Importance of Being Earnest" — were performed in
London during the height of the author's brilliant career,
between 1892 and 1895. That career was cut short in 1895
when Wilde was sentenced to two years' imprisonment at
hard labor following a trial that roused the entire civilized
world. On leaving prison Wilde adopted the name of
Sebastian Melmoth and went to France; there and at Naples
he dragged out the few remaining years of his life. He died
in Paris in 1900.

In his "De Profundis" Wilde said: "I took the drama, the
most objective form known to art, and made of it as personal
a mode of expression as the lyric or the sonnet; at the same
time I widened its range and enriched its characterization."
This refers particularly to the modern plays. "Salome",
originally written in French for production by Sarah Bern-
hardt, is rather a decorative panel than the expression of a
dramatic idea; it is, however, a distinctly personal expression
of a mood; but about all, it is an effective drama.

70 SALOME

PLAYS

Plays marked with * are in one act only.

Vera, or the Nihilists (1883) An Ideal Husband (1895)

The Duchess of Padua (1891) The Importance of Being
Lady Windermere's Fan Earnest (1895)

(1892) *Salome (1896)
A Woman of No Importance

(1893)

All of Wilde's finished plays are published in a single
volume, "The Plays of Oscar Wilde", by H. S. Nichols, New
York.

References: Leonard Cresswell Ingleby, "Oscar Wilde",
T. Werner Laurie, London; Arthur Ransome, "Oscar Wilde",
Mitchell Kennerly, New York; Robert Sherrard, "The Real
Oscar Wilde", Greening and Company, London; Lord Alfred
Douglas, "Oscar Wilde and Myself", John Lane, New York;
Anna, Comtesse de Bremont, "Oscar Wilde and his Mother",
Everett and Company, London; W. W. Kenilworth, "A
Study of Oscar Wilde", Fenno, London; Archibald Hender-
son, "European Dramatists", Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati.

Magazines: Current Literature, vol. xxxxix, 156, vol. xli,
518, vol. xliv, 287, New York; Arena, vol. xxxviii, p. 134,
New York; Dial, vol. xlviii, p. 261, New York; Bookman,
vol. xxxiv, p. 389, New York; Nation, vol. xcviii, pp. 566 and
598, and vol. xcix, p. 374, New York.

SALOME
BY OSCAR WILDE

Salome' was first produced at Paris, in 1896.

Characters

Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Judaea

Iokanaan, the Prophet

The Young Syrian, Captain of the Guard

Tigellinus, a Young Roman

A Cappadocian

A Nubian

First Soldier

Second Soldier

The Page of Herodias

Jews, Nazarenes, etc.

A Slave

Naaman, the Executioner

Herodias, Wife of the Tetrarch

Salome, Daughter of Herodias

The Slaves of Salome

SALOME

Scene. A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set above the
banqueting-hall. Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony.
To the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back,
an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. The moon
is shining very brightly.
the young sykian. How beautiful is the Princess Salome

to-night !
the page of herodias. Look at the moon. How strange
■ the moon seems ! She is like a woman rising from a tomb.

She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was

looking for dead things.
the young Syrian. She has a strange look. She is like

a little princess who wears a yellow veil, and whose feet

are of silver. She is like a princess who has little white

doves for feet. One might fancy she was dancing.
the page of herodias. She is like a woman who is dead.

She moves very slowly.

[Noise in the banqueting-hall.
first soldier. What an uproar! Who are those wild

beasts howling?
second soldier. The Jews. They are always like that.

They are disputing about their religion.
first soldier. Why do they dispute about their religion?
second soldier. I cannot tell. They are always doing it.

The Pharisees, for instance, say that there are angels, and

the Sadducees declare that angels do not exist.
first soldier. I think it is ridiculous to dispute about such

things.
the young Syrian. How beautiful is the Princess Salome

to-night!

74 SALOME

the page of herod ias. You are always looking at her.

You look at her too much. It is dangerous to look at

people in such fashion. Something terrible may happen.
the young Syrian. She is very beautiful to-night.
first soldier. The Tetrarch has a sombre aspect.
second soldier. Yes; he has a sombre aspect.
first soldier. He is looking at something.
second soldier. He is looking at some one.
first soldier. At whom is he looking?
second soldier. I cannot tell.
the young Syrian. How pale the Princess is ! Never have

I seen her so pale. She is like the shadow of a white rose

in a mirror of silver.
the page of herodias. You must not look at her. You

look too much at her.
first soldier. Herodias has filled the cup of the Tetrarch.
the cappadocian. Is that the Queen Herodias, she who

wears a black mitre sewed with pearls, and whose hair is

powdered with blue dust?
first soldier. Yes; that is Herodias, the Tetrarch's wife.
second soldier. The Tetrarch is very fond of wine. He

has wine of three sorts. One which is brought from the

Island of Samothrace, and is purple like the cloak of Caesar.
the cappadocian. I have never seen Csesar.
second soldier. Another that comes from a town called

Cyprus, and is as yellow as gold.
the cappadocian. I love gold.
second soldier. And the third is a wine of Sicily. That

wine is as red as blood.
the Nubian. The gods of my country are very fond of

blood. Twice in the year we sacrifice to them young men

and maidens; fifty young men and a hundred maidens.

But I am afraid that we never give them quite enough, for

they are very harsh to us.
the cappadocian. In my country there are no gods left.

The Romans have driven them out. There are some who

say that they have hidden themselves in the mountains,

SALOME 75

but I do not believe it. Three nights I have been on the
mountains seeking them everywhere. I did not find them,
and at last I called them by their names, and they did not
come. I think they are dead.
first soldier. The Jews worship a God that one cannot

the cappadocian. I cannot understand that.

first soldier. In fact, they only believe in things that one
cannot see.

the cappadocian - . That seems to me altogether ridiculous.

the voice of iokanaan. After me shall come another
mightier than I. I am not worthy so much as to unloose
the latchet of his shoes. When he cometh the solitary
places shall be glad. They shall blossom like the rose.
The eyes of the blind shall see the day, and the ears of the
deaf shall be opened. The sucking child shall put his hand
upon the dragon's lair, he shall lead the lions by their
manes.

second soldier. Make him be silent. He is always say-
ing ridiculous things.

first soldier. No, no. He is a holy man. He is very
gentle, too. Every day when I give him to eat he thanks
me.

the cappadocian. Who is he?

first soldier. A prophet.

the cappadocian. What is his name?

first soldier. Iokanaan.

the cappadocian. Whence comes he?

first soldier. From the desert, where he fed on locusts
and wild honey. He was clothed in camel's hair, and
round his loins he had a leathern belt. He was very ter-
rible to look upon. A great multitude used to follow him.
He even had disciples.

the cappadocian. What is he talking of?

first soldier. We can never tell. Sometimes he says
things that affright one, but it is impossible to understand
what he says.

76 SALOME

the cappadocian. May one see him?

first soldier. No. The Tetrarch has forbidden it.

the young Syrian. The Princess has hidden her face be-
hind her fan! Her little white hands are fluttering like
doves that fly to their dove-cots. They are like white
butterflies. They are just like white butterflies.

the page of herodias. What is that to you? Why do you
look at her? You must not look at her. Something ter-
rible may happen.

the cappadocian (pointing to the cistern). What a strange
prison !

second soldier. It is an old cistern.

the cappadocian. An old cistern! That must be a poison-
ous place in which to dwell!

second soldier. Oh, no! For instance, the Tetrarch's
brother, his elder brother, the first husband of Herodias,
the Queen, was imprisoned there for twelve years. It did
not kill him. At the end of the twelve years he had to be
strangled.

the cappadocian. Strangled? Who dared to do that?

second soldier (pointing to the executioner, a huge negro).
That man yonder, Naaman.

the cappadocian. He was not afraid?

second soldier. Oh, no! The Tetrarch sent him the ring.

the cappadocian. What ring?

second soldier. The death ring. So he was not afraid.

the cappadocian. Yet it is a terrible thing to strangle a
king.

first soldier. Why? Kings have but one neck, like other
folk.

the cappadocian. I think it terrible.

the young Syrian. The Princess is getting up! She is
leaving the table! She looks very troubled. Ah, she is
coming this way. Yes, she is coming towards us. How
pale she is ! Never have I seen her so pale.

the page of herodias. Do not look at her. I pray you
not to look at her.

SALOME 77

the young Syrian. She is like a dove that has strayed. She
is like a narcissus trembling in the wind. She is like a
silver flower.
[Enter Salome.

salome. I will not stay. I cannot stay. Why does the
Tetrarch look at me all the while with his mole's eyes
under his shaking eyelids? It is strange that the husband
of my mother looks at me like that. I know not what it
means. Of a truth, I know it too well.

the young Syrian. You have left the feast, Princess?

salome. How sweet is the air here! I can breathe here!
Within there are Jews from Jerusalem who are tearing each
other in pieces over their foolish ceremonies, and barbarians
who drink and drink, and spill their wine on the pavement,
and Greeks from Smyrna with painted eyes and painted
cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in columns, and Egyptians
silent and subtle, with long nails of jade and russet cloaks,
and Romans brutal and coarse, with their uncouth jargon.
Ah ! how I loathe the Romans ! They are rough and com-
mon, and they give themselves the airs of noble lords.

the young Syrian. Will you be seated, Princess?

the page of herodias. Why do you speak to her? Oh!
something terrible will happen. Why do you look at her?

salome. How good to see the moon! She is like a little
piece of money, a little silver flower. She is cold and
chaste. I am sure she is a virgin. She has the beauty of
a virgin. Yes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled her-
self. She has never abandoned herself to men, like the
other goddesses.

the voice of iokanaan. Behold ! the Lord hath come. The
Son of Man is at hand. The centaurs have hidden them-
selves in the rivers, and the nymphs have left the rivers,
and are lying beneath the leaves in the forests.

salome. Who was that who cried out?

second soldier. The prophet, Princess.

salome. Ah, the prophet! He of whom the Tetrarch is
afraid?

78 SALOME

second soldier. We know nothing of that, Princess. It

was the prophet Iokanaan who cried out.
the young soldier. Is it your pleasure that I bid them

bring your litter, Princess? The night is fair in the

garden.
salome. He says terrible things about my mother, does he

not?
second soldier. We never understand what he says,

Princess.
salome. Yes; he says terrible things about her.

[Enter a slave.
the slave. Princess, the Tetrarch prays you to return to

the feast.
salome. I will not return.
the young Syrian. Pardon me, Princess, but if you return

not some misfortune may happen.
salome. Is he an old man, this prophet?
the young syrian. Princess, it were better to return. Suffer

me to lead you in.
salome. This prophet, is he an old man?
first soldier. No, Princess, he is quite young.
second soldier. One cannot be sure. There are those who

say that he is Elias.
salome. Who is Elias?
second soldier. A prophet of this country in bygone days,

Princess.
the slave. What answer may I give the Tetrarch from

the Princess?
the voice of iokanaan. Rejoice not, O land of Palestine,

because the rod of him who smote thee is broken. For

from the seed of the serpent shall come a basilisk, and that

which is born of it shall devour the birds.
salome. What a strange voice! I would speak with him.
first soldier. I fear it may not be, Princess. The Tet-
rarch does not suffer any one to speak with him. He has

even forbidden the high priest to speak with him.
salome. I desire to speak with him.

SALOME 79

first soldier. It is impossible, Princess.

salome. I will speak with him.

the young SYRIAN. Would it not be better to return to the

banquet?
salome. Bring forth this prophet.

[Exit the slave.
first soldier. We dare not, Princess.
salome (approaching the cistern and looking down into it).

How black it is down there! It must be terrible to be in

so black a hole ! It is like a tomb. (To the soldiers) Did

you not hear me? Bring out the prophet. I would look

on him.
second soldier. Princess, I beg you, do not require this

of us.
salome. You are making me wait upon your pleasure.
first soldier. Princess, our lives belong to you, but we

cannot do what you have asked of us. And indeed, it is

not of us that you should ask this thing.
salome (looking at the young Syrian). Ah!
the page of herodias. Oh, what is going to happen? I am

sure that something terrible will happen.
salome (going up to the young Syrian). Thou wilt do this

thing for me, wilt thou not, Narraboth? Thou wilt do

this thing for me. I have ever been kind towards thee.

Thou wilt do it for me. I would but look at him, this

strange prophet. Men have talked so much of him.

Often I have heard the Tetrarch talk of him. I think he

is afraid of him, the Tetrarch. Art thou, even thou, also

afraid of him, Narraboth?
the young Syrian. I fear him not, Princess; there is no

man I fear. But the Tetrarch has formally forbidden that

any man should raise the cover of this well.
salome. Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narraboth, and

to-morrow when I pass in my litter beneath the gateway

of the idol-sellers, I will let fall for thee a little flower, a

little green flower.
the young Syrian. Princess, I cannot, I cannot.

80 SALOME

salome (smiling). Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narra-
both. Thou knowest that thou wilt do this thing for me.
And on the morrow when I shall pass in my litter by the
bridge of the idol-buyers, I will look at thee through the
muslin veils; I will look at thee, Narraboth; it may be I
will smile at thee. Look at me, Narraboth; look at me.
Ah! thou knowest that thou wilt do what I ask of thee.
Thou knowest it. I know that thou wilt do this thing.

the young syeian (signing to the third soldier). Let the
prophet come forth. The Princess Salome desires to see
him.

SALOME. Ah !

the page of herodias. Oh! How strange the moon looks!
Like the hand of a dead woman who is seeking to cover
herself with a shroud.

the young syrian. She has a strange aspect! She is like
a little Princess, whose eyes are eyes of amber. Through
the clouds of muslin she is smiling like a little Princess.
[The prophet comes out of the cistern. Salome looks at him
and steps slowly back.

iokanaan. Where is he whose cup of abominations is now
full? Where is he, who in a robe of silver shall one day
die in the face of all the people? Bid him come forth, that
he may hear the voice of him who hath cried in the waste
places and in the houses of kings.

salome. Of whom is he speaking?

the young Syrian. No one can tell, Princess.

iokanaan. Where is she who saw the images of men
painted on the walls, even the images of the Chaldseans
painted with colors, and gave herself up unto the lust of
her eyes, and sent ambassadors into the land of the
Chaldseans?

salome. It is of my mother that he is speaking.

the young syrian. Oh, no, Princess.

salome. Yes; it is of my mother that he is speaking.

iokanaan. Where is she who gave herself unto the Captains
of Assyria, who have baldricks on their loins, and crowns

SALOME 81

of many colors on their heads? Where is she who hath
given herself to the young men of the Egyptians, who are
clothed in fine linen and hyacinth, whose shields are of
gold, whose helmets are of silver, whose bodies are mighty?
Go, bid her rise up from the bed of her abominations, from
the bed of her incestuousness, that she may hear the words
of him who prepareth the way of the Lord, that she may
repent of her iniquities. Though she will not repent, but
will stick fast in her abominations, go bid her come, for
the fan of the Lord is in His hand.

salome. Ah, but he is terrible, he is terrible!

the young Syrian. Do not stay here, Princess, I beseech
you.

salome. It is his eyes above all that are terrible. They are
like black holes burned by torches in the tapestry of Tyre.
They are like the black cavern where the dragons live, the
black caverns of Egypt, in which the dragons make their
lairs. They are like black lakes troubled by fantastic
moons. Do you think he will speak again?

the young syrian. Do not stay here, Princess. I pray
you do not stay here.

salome. How wasted he is! He is like a thin ivory statue.
He is like an image of silver. I am sure he is chaste, as
the moon is. He is like a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver.
His flesh must be very cold, cold as ivory. I would look
closer at him.

the young syrian. No, no, Princess!

salome. I must look at him closer.

the young syrian. Princess! Princess!

iokanaan. Who is this woman who is looking at me? I
will not have her look at me. Wherefore doth she look at
me with her golden eyes, under her gilded eyelids? I
know not who she is. I do not desire to know who she
is. Bid her begone. It is not to hear her that I would
speak.

salome. I am Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of
Judsea.

82 SALOME

iokanaan. Back! daughter of Babylon! Come not near
the chosen of the Lord. Thy mother hath filled the earth
with the wine of her iniquities, and the cry of her sinning
hath come up even to the ears of God.

salome. Speak again, Iokanaan. Thy voice is as music to
mine ear.

the young Syrian. Princess! Princess! Princess!

salome. Speak again ! Speak again, Iokanaan, and tell me
what I must do.

iokanaan. Daughter of Sodom, come not near me! But
cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine
head, and get thee to the desert, and seek out the Son of
Man.

salome. Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as
thou art, Iokanaan?

iokanaan. Get thee behind me! I hear in the palace the
beating of the wings of the angel of death.

the young Syrian. Princess, I beseech thee to go within.

iokanaan. Angel of the Lord God, what dost thou here
with thy sword? Whom seekest thou in the palace? The
day of him who shall die in a robe of silver has not yet come.

salome. Iokanaan !

iokanaan. Who speaketh?

salome. I am amorous of thy body, Iokanaan! Thy body
is white, like the lilies of the field that the mower hath
never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie
on the mountains of Judsea, and come down into the val-
leys. The roses in the gardens of the Queen of Arabia are
not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden
of the Queen of Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen
of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the
leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the
breast of the sea. There is nothing in this world so white
as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body.

iokanaan. Back! daughter of Babylon! By woman came
evil into the world. Speak not to me. I will not listen
to thee. I listen but to the voice of the Lord God.

SALOME 83

salome. Thy body is hideous. It is like the body of a
leper. It is like a plastered wall, where vipers have
crawled; like a plastered wall where the scorpions have
made their nest. It is like a whited sepulchre, full of
loathsome things. It is horrible; thy body is horrible. It
is of thy hair I am enamoured, Iokanaan. Thy hair is
like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black grapes
that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in the land of the
Edomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon, like
the great cedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the
lions and to the robbers who would hide them by day.
The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when
the stars are afraid, are not so black as thy hair. The
silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is
nothing in the world that is so black as thy hair. Suffer
me to touch thy hair.

iokanaan. Back, daughter of Sodom! Touch me not.
Profane not the temple of the Lord God.

salome. Thy hair is horrible. It is covered with mire and
dust. It is like a crown of thorns placed on thy head.
It is like a knot of serpents coiled round thy neck. I love
not thy hair. It is thy mouth that I desire, Iokanaan.
Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory.
It is like a pomegranate cut in twain with a knife of ivory.
The pomegranate flowers that blossom in the gardens of
Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red
blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings, and
make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is
redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the
wine-press. It is redder than the feet of the doves who
inhabit the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder
than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he
hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is
like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight
of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings! It is
like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of
Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It

84 SALOME

is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is tinted
with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing
in the world so red as thy mouth. Suffer me to kiss thy
mouth.

iokanaan. Never! daughter of Babylon! Daughter of
Sodom! never!

salome. I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. I will kiss thy
mouth.

the young Syrian. Princess, Princess, thou who art like a
garden of myrrh, thou who art the dove of all doves, look
not at this man, look not at him ! Do not speak such words
to him. I cannot endure it. Princess, do not speak these
things.

salome. I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan.

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Ah!

[He kills himself, and falls between Salome and Iokanaan.

the page of herodias. The young Syrian has slain him-
self! The young captain has slain himself! He has slain
himself who was my friend! I gave him a little box of
perfumes and ear-rings wrought in silver, and now he has
killed himself! Ah, did he not say that some misfortune
would happen? I, too, said it, and it has come to pass.
Well I knew that the moon was seeking a dead thing, but
I knew not that it was he whom she sought. Ah ! why did
I not hide him from the moon? If I had hidden him in a
cavern she would not have seen him.

first soldier. Princess, the young captain has just slain
himself.

salome. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan.

iokanaan. Art thou not afraid, daughter of Herodias?
Did I not tell thee that I heard in the palace the beating
of the wings of the angel of death, and hath he not come,
the angel of death?

salome. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth.

iokanaan. Daughter of adultery, there is but one who can
save thee. It is He of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He
is in a boat on the sea of Galilee, and He talketh with His

SALOME 85

disciples. Kneel down on the shore of the sea, and call
unto Him by His name. When He cometh to thee, and
to all who call on Him He cometh, bow thyself at His feet
and ask of Him the remission of thy sins.

salome. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth.

iokanaan. Cursed be thou! Daughter of an incestuous
mother, be thou accursed !

salome. I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan.

iokanaan. I will not look at thee. Thou art accursed,
Salome; thou art accursed.
[He goes down into the cistern.

salome. I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. I will kiss thy
mouth.

first soldier. We must bear away the body to another
place. The Tetrarch does not care to see dead bodies,
save the bodies of those whom he himself has slain.

the page of herodias. He was my brother, and nearer to
me than a brother. I gave him a little box of perfumes,
and a ring of agate that he wore always on his hand. In
the evening we were wont to walk by the river, and among
the almond-trees, and he used to tell me of the things
of his country. He spake ever very low. The sound
of his voice was like the sound of the flute, of one who
playeth upon the flute. Also he had much joy to gaze
at himself in the river. I used to reproach him for
that.

second soldier. You are right; we must hide the body.
The Tetrarch must not see it.

first soldier. The Tetrarch will not come to this place.
He never comes on the terrace. He is too much afraid of
the prophet.
[Enter Herod, Herodias, and all the Court.

herod. Where is Salome? Where is the Princess? Why
did she not return to the banquet as I commanded her?
Ah! there she is!

herodias. You must not look at her! You are always
looking at her!

86 SALOME

herod. The moon has a strange look to-night. Has she not
a strange look? She is like a mad woman, and a mad
woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers. She is
naked, too. She is quite naked. The clouds are seeking
to clothe her nakedness, but she will not let them. She
shows herself naked in the sky. She reels through the
clouds like a drunken woman. I am sure she is looking
for lovers. Does she not reel like a drunken woman? She
is like a mad woman, is she not?

herodias. No; the moon is like the moon, that is all. Let
us go within. We have nothing to do here.

herod. I will stay here! Manasseh, lay carpets there.
Light torches. Bring forth the ivory tables, and the
tables of jasper. The air here is sweet. I will drink more
wine with my guests. We must show all honor to the
ambassadors of Caesar.

herodias. It is not because of them that you remain.

herod. Yes; the air is very sweet. Come, Herodias, our
guests await us. Ah! I have slipped! I have slipped in
blood! It is an ill omen. It is a very ill omen. Wherefore
is there blood here? And this body, what does this body
here? Think you I am like the King of Egypt, who gives
no feast to his guests but that he shows them a corpse?
Whose is it? I will not look on it.

first soldier. It is our captain, sire. It is the young
Syrian whom you made captain of the guard but three
days gone.

herod. I issued no order that he should be slain.

second soldier. He slew himself, sire.

herod. For what reason? I had made him captain of my
guard !

second soldier. We do not know, sire. But with his own
hand he slew himself.

herod. That seems strange to me. I had thought it was
but the Roman philosophers who slew themselves. Is it
not true, Tigellinus, that the philosophers at Rome slay
themselves?

SALOME 87

tigellinus. There be some who slay themselves, sire. They
are the Stoics. The Stoics are people of no cultivation.
They are ridiculous people. I myself regard them as
being perfectly ridiculous.

herod. I also. It is ridiculous to kill one's self.

tigellinus. Everybody at Rome laughs at them. The
Emperor has written a satire against them. It is recited
everywhere.

herod. Ah! he has written a satire against them? Csesar
is wonderful. He can do everything. It is strange that
the young Syrian has slain himself. I am sorry he has slain
himself. I am very sorry. For he was fair to look upon.
He was even very fair. He had very languorous eyes. I
remember that I saw that he looked languorously at
Salome. Truly, I thought he looked too much at
her.

herodias. There are others who look too much at her.

herod. His father was a king. I drove him from his king-
dom. And of his mother, who was a queen, you made a
slave, Herodias. So he was here as my guest, as it were,
and for that reason I made him my captain. I am sorry
he is dead. Ho! why have you left the body here? It
must be taken to some other place. I will not look at
it, — away with it! {They take away the body) It is cold
here. There is a wind blowing. Is there not a wind
blowing?

herodias. No; there is no wind.

herod. I tell you there is a wind that blows. And I hear
in the air something that is like the beating of wings, like
the beating of vast wings. Do you not hear it?

herodias. I hear nothing.

herod. I hear it no longer. But I heard it. It was the
blowing of the wind. It has passed away. But no, I hear
it again. Do you not hear it? It is just like a beating
of wings.

herodias. I tell you there is nothing. You are ill. Let us
go within.

88 SALOME

herod. I am not ill. It is your daughter who is sick to

death. Never have I seen her so pale.
herodias. I have told you not to look at her.
herod. Pour me forth wine. (Wine is brought) Salome,

come drink a little wine with me. I have here a wine that

is exquisite. Csesar himself sent it me. Dip into it thy

little red lips, that I may drain the cup.
salome. I am not thirsty, Tetrarch.
herod. You hear how she answers me, this daughter of

yours?
herodias. She does right. Why are you always gazing at

her?
herod. Bring me ripe fruits. (Fruits are brought) Salome,

come and eat fruits with me. I love to see in a fruit the

mark of thy little teeth. Bite but a little of this fruit, that

I may eat what is left.
salome. I am not hungry, Tetrarch.
herod (to Herodias). You see how you have brought up

this daughter of yours.
herodias. My daughter and I come of a royal race. As

for thee, thy father was a camel driver! He was a thief

and a robber to boot!
herod. Thou liest!

herodias. Thou knowest well that it is true.
herod. Salome, come and sit next to me. I will give thee

the throne of thy mother.
salome. I am not tired, Tetrarch.
herodias. You see in what regard she holds you.
herod. Bring me What is it that I desire? I forget.

Ah! ah! I remember.
the voice of iokanaan. Behold, the time is come! That

which I foretold has come to pass. The day that I spake

of is at hand.
herodias. Bid him be silent. I will not listen to his voice.

This man is forever hurling insults against me.
herod. He has said nothing against you. Besides, he is a

very great prophet.

SALOME 89

herodias. I do not believe in prophets. Can a man tell
what will come to pass? No man knows it. Also, he is
forever insulting me. But I think you are afraid of him.
I know well that you are afraid of him.

herod. I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of no man.

herodias. I tell you you are afraid of him. If you are not
afraid of him, why do you not deliver him to the Jews,
who for these six months past have been clamoring for
him?

A jew. Truly, my lord, it were better to deliver him into
our hands.

herod. Enough on this subject. I have already given you
my answer. I will not deliver him into your hands. He
is a holy man. He is a man who has seen God.

a jew. That cannot be. There is no man who hath seen
God since the prophet Elias. He is the last man who saw
God face to face. In these days God doth not show Him-
self. God hideth Himself. Therefore great evils have
come upon the land.

another jew. Verily, no man knoweth if Elias the prophet
did indeed see God. Peradventure it was but the shadow
of God that he saw.

a third jew. God is at no time hidden. He showeth Him-
self at all times and in all places. God is in what is evil
even as He is in what is good.

A fourth jew. Thou shouldst not say that. It is a very
dangerous doctrine. It is a doctrine that cometh from
Alexandria, where men teach the philosophy of the Greeks.
And the Greeks are Gentiles. They are not even circum-
sized.

a fifth jew. No man can tell how God worketh. His ways
are very dark. It may be that the things which we call
evil are good, and that the things which we call good are
evil. There is no knowledge of anything. We can but
bow our heads to His will, for God is very strong. He
breaketh in pieces the strong together with the weak, for
He regardeth not any man.

90 SALOME

first jew. Thou speakest truly. Verily, God is terrible.
He breaketh in pieces the strong and the weak as men
break corn in a mortar. But as for this man, he hath
never seen God. No man hath seen God since the prophet
Elias.

herodias. Make them be silent. They weary me.

herod. But I have heard it said that Iokanaan is in very
truth your prophet Elias.

the jew. That cannot be. It is more than three hundred
years since the days of the prophet Elias.

herod. There be some who say that this man is Elias the
prophet.

a nazarene. I am sure that he is Elias the prophet.

the jew. Nay, but he is not Elias the prophet.

the voice of iokanaan. Behold the day is at hand, the day
of the Lord, and I hear upon the mountains the feet of
Him who shall be the Saviour of the world.

herod. What does that mean? The Saviour of the world?

tigellinus. It is a title that Caesar adopts.

herod. But Csesar is not coming into Judaea. Only yes-
terday I received letters from Rome. They contained
nothing concerning this matter. And you, Tigellinus, who
were at Rome during the winter, you heard nothing con-
cerning this matter, did you?

tigellinus. Sire, I heard nothing concerning the matter.
I was but explaining the title. It is one of Caesar's titles.

herod. But Caesar cannot come. He is too gouty. They
say that his feet are like the feet of an elephant. Also there
are reasons of state. He who leaves Rome loses Rome. He
will not come. Howbeit, Caesar is lord, he will come if such
be his pleasure. Nevertheless, I think he will not come.

first nazarene. It was not concerning Caesar that the
prophet spake these words, sire.

herod. How? — it was not concerning Caesar?

first nazarene. No, my lord.

herod. Concerning whom then did he speak?

first nazarene. Concerning Messias, who hath come.

SALOME 91

a jew. Messias hath not come.

first nazarene. He hath come, and everywhere He work-

eth miracles!
herodias. Ho! ho! miracles! I do not believe in miracles.

I have seen too many. (To the Page) My fan.
first nazarene. This Man worketh true miracles. Thus,

at a marriage which took place in a little town of Galilee,

a town of some importance, He changed water into wine.

Certain persons who were present related it to me. Also

He healed two lepers that were seated before the Gate of

Capernaum simply by touching them.
second nazarene. Nay; it was two blind men that He

healed at Capernaum.
first nazarene. Nay; they were lepers. But He hath

healed blind people also, and He was seen on a mountain

talking with angels.
a sadducee. Angels do not exist.
a Pharisee. Angels exist, but I do not believe that this

Man has talked with them.
first nazarene. He was seen by a great multitude of

people talking with angels.
herodias. How these men weary me ! They are ridiculous !

They are altogether ridiculous! (To the Page) Well! my

fan? (The Page gives her the fan) You have a dreamer's

look. You must not dream. It is only sick people who

dream.

[She strikes the Page with her fan.
second nazarene. There is also the miracle of the daughter

of Jairus.
first nazarene. Yea, that is true. No man can gainsay it.
herodias. Those men are mad. They have looked too

long on the moon. Command them to be silent.
herod. What is this miracle of the daughter of Jairus?
first nazarene. The daughter of Jairus was dead. This

Man raised her from the dead.
herod. How! He raises people from the dead?
first nazarene. Yea, sire; He raiseth the dead.

92 SALOME

herod. I do not wish Him to do that. I forbid Him to do
that. I suffer no man to raise the dead. This Man must
be found and told that I forbid Him to raise the dead.
Where is this Man at present?

second nazarene. He is in every place, my lord, but it is
hard to find Him.

first nazarene. It is said that He is now in Samaria.

a jew. It is easy to see that this is not Messias, if He is in
Samaria. It is not to the Samaritans that Messias shall
come. The Samaritans are accursed. They bring no of-
ferings to the Temple.

second nazarene. He left Samaria a few days since. I
think that at the present moment He is in the neigh-
bourhood of Jerusalem.

first nazarene. No; He is not there. I have just come
from Jerusalem. For two months they have had no tidings
of Him.

herod. No matter! But let them find Him, and tell Him,
thus saith Herod the King, ' I will not suffer Thee to raise
the dead.' To change water into wine, to heal the lepers
and the blind. He may do these things if He will. I say
nothing against these things. In truth I hold it a kindly
deed to heal a leper. But no man shall raise the dead. It
would be terrible if the dead came back.

the voice of iokanaan. Ah ! The wanton one ! The harlot !
Ah ! the daughter of Babylon with her golden eyes and her
gilded eyelids! Thus saith the Lord God, Let there come
up against her a multitude of men. Let the people take
stones and stone her.

herodias. Command him to be silent!

the voice of iokanaan. Let the captains of the hosts
pierce her with their swords, let them crush her beneath
their shields.

herodias. Nay, but it is infamous.

the voice of iokanaan. It is thus that I will wipe out all
wickedness from the earth, and that all women shall learn
not to imitate her abominations.

SALOME 93

herodias. You hear what he says against me? You suffer
him to revile her who is your wife?

herod. He did not speak your name.

herodias. What does that matter? You know well that it
is I whom he seeks to revile. And I am your wife, am I
not?

herod. Of a truth, dear and noble Herodias, you are
my wife, and before that you were the wife of my
brother.

herodias. It was thou didst snatch me from his arms.

herod. Of a truth I was stronger than he was. But let
us not talk of that matter. I do not desire to talk of it.
It is the cause of the terrible words that the prophet has
spoken. Perad venture on account of it a misfortune will
come. Let us not speak of this matter. Noble Herodias,
we are not mindful of our guests. Fill thou my cup, my
well-beloved. Ho! fill with wine the great goblets of
silver, and the great goblets of glass. I will drink to
Caesar. There are Romans here, we must drink to Caesar.

all. Caesar! Caesar!

herod. Do you not see your daughter, how pale she is?

herodias. What is it to you if she be pale or not?

herod. Never have I seen her so pale.

herodias. You must not look at her.

the voice of iokanaan. In that day the sun shall become
black like sackcloth of hair, and the moon shall become
like blood, and the stars of the heaven shall fall upon the
earth like unripe figs that fall from the fig-tree, and the
kings of the earth shall be afraid.

herodias. Ah! ah! I should like to see that day of which
he speaks, when the moon shall become like blood, and
when the stars shall fall upon the earth like unripe figs.
This prophet talks like a drunken man, but I cannot suffer
the sound of his voice. I hate his voice. Command him
to be silent.

herod. I will not. I cannot understand what it is that he
saith, but it may be an omen.

94 SALOME

herodias. I do not believe in omens. He speaks like a

drunken man.
herod. It may be he is drunk with the wine of God.
herodias. What wine is that, the wine of God? From what

vineyards is it gathered? In what winepress may one

find it?
herod (from this point he looks all the while at Salome). Tigel-

linus, when you were at Rome of late, did the Emperor

speak with you on the subject of ?

tigellinus. On what subject, my lord?

herod. On what subject? Ah! I asked you a question,

did I not? I have forgotten what I would have asked you.
herodias. You are looking again at my daughter. You

must not look at her. I have already said so.
herod. You say nothing else.
herodias. I say it again.
herod. And that restoration of the Temple about which

they have talked so much, will anything be done? They

say that the veil of the Sanctuary has disappeared, do

they not?
herodias. It was thyself didst steal it. Thou speakest at

random and without wit. I will not stay here. Let us go

within.
herod. Dance for me, Salome.
herodias. I will not have her dance.
salome. I have no desire to dance, Tetrarch.
herod. Salome, daughter of Herodias, dance for me.
herodias. Peace. Let her alone.
herod. I command thee to dance, Salome.
salome. I will not dance, Tetrarch.
herodias (laughing). You see how she obeys you.
herod. What is it to me whether she dance or not? It is

nought to me. To-night I am happy. I am exceeding

happy. Never have I been so happy.
first soldier. The Tetrarch has a sombre look. Has he

not a sombre look?
second soldier. Yes, he has a sombre look.

SALOME 95

herod. Wherefore should I not be happy? Caesar, who is
lord of the world, Caesar, who is lord of all things, loves
me well. He has just sent me most precious gifts. . Also,
he has promised me to summon to Rome the King of
Cappadoeia, who is mine enemy. It may be that at Rome
he will crucify him, for he is able to do all things that he
has a mind to do. Verily, Caesar is lord. Therefore I do
well to be happy. I am very happy; never have I been
so happy. There is nothing in the world that can mar my
happiness.

the voice of iokanaan. He shall be seated on his throne.
He shall be clothed in scarlet and purple. In his hand he
shall bear a golden cup full of his blasphemies. And the
angel of the Lord shall smite him. He shall be eaten of
worms.

herodias. You hear what he says about you. He says
that you shall be eaten of worms.

herod. It is not of me that he speaks. He speaks never
against me. It is of the King of Cappadoeia that he
speaks; the King of Cappadoeia, who is mine enemy. It
is he who shall be eaten of worms. It is not I. Never
has he spoken word against me, this prophet, save that I
sinned in taking to wife the wife of my brother. It may be
he is right. For, of truth, you are sterile.

herodias. I am sterile, I? You say that, you that are
ever looking at my daughter, you that would have her
dance for your pleasure? You speak as a fool. I have
borne a child. You have gotten no child, no, not on one
of your slaves. It is you who are sterile, not I.

herod. Peace, woman! I say that you are sterile. You
have borne me no child, and the prophet says that our
marriage is not a true marriage. He says that it is a
marriage of incest, a marriage that will bring evils. I
fear he is right; I am sure that he is right. But it is not
the hour to speak of these things. I would be happy at
this moment. Of a truth, I am happy. There is nothing
I lack.

96 SALOME

herodias. I am glad you are of so fair a humour to-night.
It is not your custom. But it is late. Let us go within.
Do not forget that we hunt at sunrise. All honours must
be shown to Csesar's ambassadors, must they not?

second soldier. The Tetrarch has a sombre look.

first soldier. Yes, he has a sombre look.

herod. Salome, Salome, dance for me. I pray thee dance
for me. I am sad to-night. Yes, I am passing sad to-
night. When I came hither I slipped in blood, which is
an ill omen; also I heard in the air a beating of wings, a
beating of giant wings. I cannot tell what that may mean.
I am sad to-night. Therefore dance for me. Dance for
me, Salome, I beseech thee. If thou dancest for me thou
mayest ask of me what thou wilt, and I will give it thee.
Yes, dance for me, Salome, and whatsoever thou shalt ask
of me I will give it thee, even unto the half of my kingdom.

salome (rising). Will you indeed give me whatsoever I
shall ask of you, Tetrarch?

herodias. Do not dance, my daughter.

herod. Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, even unto the
half of my kingdom.

salome. You swear it, Tetrarch?

herod. I swear it, Salome.

herodias. Do not dance, my daughter.

salome. By what will you swear this thing, Tetrarch?

herod. By my life, by my crown, by my gods. Whatso-
ever thou shalt desire I will give it thee, even to the half
of my kingdom, if thou wilt but dance for me. Salome,
Salome, dance for me!

salome. You have sworn an oath, Tetrarch.

herod. I have sworn an oath.

herodias. My daughter, do not dance.

herod. Even to the half of my kingdom. Thou wilt be
pissing fair as a queen, Salome, if it please thee to ask for
the half of my kingdom. Will she not be fair as a queen?
Ah! it is cold here! There is an icy wind, and I hear —
wherefore do I hear in the air this beating of wings? Ah !

SALOME 97

one might fancy a huge black bird that hovers over the
terrace. Why can I not see it, this bird? The beat of its
wings is terrible. The breath of the wind of its wings is
terrible. It is a chill wind. Nay, but it is not cold, it is
hot. I am choking. Pour water on my hands. Give me
snow to eat. Loosen my mantle. Quick ! quick ! loosen my
mantle. Nay, but leave it. It is my garland that hurts
me, my garland of roses. The flowers are like fire. They
have burned my forehead. (He tears the wreath from his
head, and throws it on the table) Ah! I can breathe now.
How red those petals are! They are like stains of blood on
the cloth. That does not matter. It is not wise to find
symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too
full of terrors. It were better to say that stains of blood
are as lovely as rose-petals. It were better far to say

that But we will not speak of this. Now I am happy.

I am passing happy. Have I not the right to be happy?
Your daughter is going to dance for me. Wilt thou not
dance for me, Salome? Thou hast promised to dance for
me.

herodias. I will not have her dance.

salome. I will dance for you, Tetrarch.

herod. You hear what your daughter says. She is going
to dance for me. Thou doest well to dance for me, Salome.
And when thou hast danced for me, forget not to ask of
me whatsoever thou hast a mind to ask. Whatsoever thou
shalt desire I will give it thee, even to the half of my king-
dom. I have sworn it, have I not?

salome. Thou hast sworn it, Tetrarch.

herod. And I have never failed of my word. I am not
of those who break their oaths. I know not how to lie.
I am the slave of my word, and my word is the word of
a king. The King of Cappadocia had ever a lying tongue,
but he is no true king. He is a coward. Also he owes me
money that he will not repay. He has even insulted my
ambassadors. He has spoken words that were wounding.
But Caesar will crucify him when he comes to Rome. I

98 SALOME

know that Csesar will crucify him. And if he crucify him
not, yet will he die, being eaten of worms. The prophet
has prophesied it. Well! Wherefore dost thou tarry,
Salome?

salome. I am waiting until my slaves bring perfumes to
me and the seven veils, and take from off my feet my san-
dals.

[Slaves bring perfumes and the seven veils, and take off the
sandals of Salome.

herod. Ah, thou art to dance with naked feet! 'Tis well!
'Tis well ! Thy little feet will be like white doves. They
will be little white flowers that dance upon the trees. No,
no, she is going to dance on blood! There is blood spilt
on the ground. She must not dance on blood. It were
an evil omen.

herodias. What is it to thee if she dance on blood? Thou
hast waded deep enough in it.

herod. What is it to me? Ah! look at the moon! She has
become red. She has become red as blood. Ah! the
prophet prophesied truly. He prophesied that the moon
would become as blood. Did he not prophesy it? All of
ye heard him prophesying it. And now the moon has be-
come as blood. Do ye not see it?

herodias. Oh, yes, I see it well, and the stars are falling
like unripe figs, are they not? And the sun is becoming
black like sackcloth of hair, and the kings of the earth are
afraid. That, at least, one can see. The prophet is jus-
tified of his words in that at least, for truly the kings of
the earth are afraid. Let us go within. You are sick.
They will say at Rome that you are mad. Let us go
within, I tell you.

the voice of iokanaan. Who is this who cometh from
Edom, who is this who cometh from Bozra, whose raiment
is dyed with purple, who .«hineth in the beauty of his gar-
ments, who walketh mighty in his greatness? Wherefore
is thy raiment stained with scarlet?

herodias. Let us go within. The voice of that man mad-

SALOME 09

dens me. I will not have my daughter dance while he is
continually crying out. I will not have her dance while
you look at her in this fashion. In a word, I will not have
her dance.

herod. Do not rise, my wife, my queen; it will avail thee
nothing. I will not go within till she hath danced. Dance,
Salome, dance for me.

herodias. Do not dance, my daughter.

salome. I am ready, Tetrarch.

[Salome dances the dance of the seven veils.

herod. Ah! wonderful! wonderful! You see that she has
danced for me, your daughter. Come near, Salome, come
near, that I may give thee thy fee. Ah ! I pay a royal price
to those who dance for my pleasure. I will pay thee
royally. I will give thee whatsoever thy soul desireth.
What wouldst thou have? Speak.

salome {kneeling). I would that they presently bring me
in a silver charger

herod {laughing). In a silver charger? Surely yes, in a
silver charger. She is charming, is she not? What is it
that thou wouldst have in a silver charger, O sweet and
fair Salome, thou that art fairer than all the daughters
of Judaea? What wouldst thou have them bring thee in a
silver charger? Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, thou
shalt receive it. My treasures belong to thee. What is
that thou wouldst have, Salome?

salome {rising). The head of Iokanaan.

herodias. Ah! that is well said, my daughter.

herod. No, no!

herodias. That is well said, my daughter.

herod. No, no, Salome. It is not that thou desirest. Do
not listen to thy mother's voice. She is ever giving evil
counsel. Do not heed her.

salome. It is not my mother's voice that I heed. It is
for mine own pleasure that I ask the head of Iokanaan in
a silver charger. You have sworn an oath, Herod. For-
get not that you have sworn an oath.

100 SALOME

herod. I know it. I have sworn an oath by my gods. I
know it well. But I pray thee, Salome, ask of me some-
thing else. Ask of me the half of my kingdom, and I will
give it thee. But ask not of me what thy lips have asked.

salome. I ask of you the head of Iokanaan.

herod. No, no; I will not give it thee.

salome. You have sworn an oath, Herod.

herodias. Yes, you have sworn an oath. Everybody
heard you. You swore it before everybody.

herod. Peace, woman! It is not to you I speak.

herodias. My daughter has done well to ask the head of
Iokanaan. He has covered me with insults. He has said
unspeakable things against me. One can see that she
loves her mother well. Do not yield, my daughter. He
has sworn an oath; he has sworn an oath.

herod. Peace! Speak not to me! Salome, I pray thee be
not stubborn. I have ever been kind toward thee. I
have ever loved thee. It may be that I have loved thee
too much. Therefore ask not this thing of me. This is a
terrible thing, an awful thing to ask of me. Surely, I
think thou art jesting. The head of a man that is cut
from his body is ill to look upon, is it not? It is not meet
that the eyes of a virgin should look upon such a thing.
What pleasure couldst thou have in it? There is no
pleasure that thou couldst have in it. No, no; it is not
that thou desirest. Hearken to me. I have an emerald,
a great emerald and round, that the minion of Caesar has
sent unto me. When thou lookest through this emerald
thou canst see that which passeth afar off. Csesar him-
self carries such an emerald when he goes to the circus.
But my emerald is the larger. I know well that it is the
larger. It is the largest emerald in the whole world.
Thou wilt take that, wilt thou not? Ask it of me and I
will give it thee.

salome. I demand the head of Iokanaan.

herod. Thou art not listening. Thou art not listening.
Suffer me to speak, Salome.

SALOME 101

salome. The head of Iokanaan!

herod. No, no, thou wouldst not have that. Thou sayest
that but to trouble me, because that I have looked at thee
and ceased not this night. It is true, I have looked at
thee and ceased not this night. Thy beauty has troubled
me. Thy beauty has grievously troubled me, and I have
looked at thee overmuch. Nay, but I will look at thee
no more. One should not look at anything. Neither at
things, nor at people should one look. Only in mirrors is
it well to look, for mirrors do but show us masks. Oh!
oh! bring wine! I thirst! Salome, Salome, let us be as

friends. Bethink thee Ah! what would I say? What

was't? Ah! I remember it! Salome, — nay, but come
nearer to me; I fear thou wilt not hear my words, — Salome,
thou knowest my white peacocks, my beautiful white pea-
cocks, that walk in the garden between the myrtles and the
tall cypress-trees. Their beaks are gilded with gold, and
the grains that they eat are smeared with gold, and their
feet are stained with purple. When they cry out the rain
comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens when
they spread their tails. Two by two, they walk between
the cypress trees and the black myrtles, and each has a
slave to tend it. Sometimes they fly across the trees, and
anon they couch in the grass, and round the pools of the
water. There are not in all the world birds so wonderful.
I know that Caesar himself has no birds so fair as my birds.
I will give thee fifty of my peacocks. They will follow
thee whithersoever thou goest, and in the midst of them
thou wilt be like unto the moon in the midst of a great
white cloud. I will give them to thee, all. I have but a
hundred, and in the whole world there is no king who has
peacocks like unto my peacocks. But I will give them
all to thee. Only thou must loose me from my oath,
and must not ask of me that which thy lips have asked
of me.
[He empties the cup of wine.

salome. Give me the head of Iokanaan.

102 SALOME

herodias. Well said, my daughter! As for you, you are
ridiculous with your peacocks.

herod. Peace! you are always crying out. You cry out
like a beast of prey. You rnust not cry in such fashion.
Your voice wearies me. Peace, I tell you ! Salome, think
on what thou art doing. It may be that this man comes
from God. He is a holy man. The finger of God has
touched him. God has put terrible words into his mouth.
In the palace, as in the desert, God is ever with him! It
may be that He is, at least. One cannot tell, but it is pos-
sible that God is with him and for him. If he die also,
peradventure some evil may befall me. Verily, he has
said that evil will befall some one on the day whereon he
dies. On whom should it fall if it fall not on me? Re-
member, I slipped in blood when I came hither. Also
did I not hear the beating of wings in the air, a beating
of vast wings? These are ill omens. And there were
other things. I am sure there were other things, though
I saw them not. Thou wouldst not that some evil should
befall me, Salome? Listen to me again.

salome. Give me the head of Iokanaan!

herod. Ah! thou art not listening to me. Be calm. As
for me, am I not calm? I am altogether calm. Listen.
I have jewels hidden in this place — jewels that thy mother
even has never seen; jewels that are marvelous to look at.
I have a collar of pearls, set in four rows. They are like
unto moons chained with rays of silver. They are even
as half a hundred moons caught in a golden net. On the
ivory breast of a queen they have rested. Thou shalt be
as fair as a queen when thou wearest them. I have ame-
thysts of two kinds; one that is black like wine, and one
that is red like wine that one has colored with water. I
have topazes yellow as are the eyes of tigers, and topazes
that are pink as the eyes of a wood-pigeon, and green
topazes that are as the eyes of cats. I have opals that
burn always, with a flame that is cold as ice, opals that
make sad men's minds, and are afraid of the shadows. I

SALOME 103

have onyxes like the eyeballs of a dead woman. I have
moonstones that change when the moon changes, and are
wan when they see the sun. I have sapphires big like
eggs, and as blue as blue flowers. The sea wanders within
them, and the moon comes never to trouble the blue of
their waves. I have chrysolites and beryls, and chryso-
prases and rubies; I have sardonyx and hyacinth stones,
and stones of chalcedony, and I will give them all unto
thee, all, and other things will I add to them. The King
of the Indies has but even now sent me four fans fashioned
from the feathers of parrots, and the King of Numidia a
garment of ostrich feathers. I have a crystal, into which it
is not lawful for a woman to look, nor may young men
behold it until they have been beaten with rods. In a
coffer of nacre I have three wondrous turquoises. He who
wears them on his forehead can imagine things which are
not, and he who carries them in his hand can turn the
fruitful woman into a woman that is barren. These are
great treasures. They are treasures above all price. But
this is not all. In an ebony coffer I have two cups of amber
that are like apples of pure gold. If an enemy pour poison
into these cups they become like apples of silver. In a
coffer incrusted with amber I have sandals incrusted with
glass. I have mantles that have been brought from the
land of the Seres, and bracelets decked about with car-
buncles and with jade that come from the city of Eu-
phrates. What desirest thou more than this, Salome?
Tell me the thing that thou desirest, and I will give it
thee. All that thou askest I will give thee, save one thing
only. I will give thee all that is mine, save only the life
of one man. 1 will give thee the mantle of the high priest.
I will give thee the veil of the sanctuary.

the jews. Oh ! oh !

salome. Give me the head of Iokanaan!

herod (sinking back in his seat). Let her be given what she
asks! Of a truth she is her mother's child! (The first
soldier approaches. Herodias draws from the hand of the

104 SALOME

Tetrarch the ring of death, and gives it to the soldier, who
straightway bears it to the executioner. The executioner looks
scared) Who has taken my ring? There was a ring on
my right hand. Who has drunk my wine? There was
wine in my cup. It was full of wine. Some one has drunk
it! Oh! surely some evil will befall some one. (The exe-
cutioner goes down into the cistern) Ah ! wherefore did I give
my oath? Hereafter let no king swear an oath. If he keep
it not, it is terrible, and if he keep it, it is terrible also.

herodias. My daughter has done well.

herod. I am sure that some misfortune will happen.

salome (she leans over the cistern and listens). There is no
sound. I hear nothing. Why does he not cry out, this
man? Ah! if any man sought to kill me, I would cry out,
I would struggle, I would not suffer. Strike, strike, Naa-
man, strike, I tell you! No, I hear nothing. There is a
silence, a terrible silence. Ah! something has fallen upon
the ground. I heard something fall. It was the sword
of the executioner. He is afraid, this slave. He has
dropped his sword. He dares not kill him. He is a cow-
ard, this slave ! Let soldiers be sent. (She sees the page of
Herodias and addresses him) Come hither. Thou wert
the friend of him who is dead, wert thou not? Well, I
tell thee, there are not dead men enough. Go to the sol-
diers and bid them go down and bring me the thing I ask,
the thing the Tetrarch has promised me, the thing that is
mine. (The page recoils. She turns to the soldiers) Hither,
ye soldiers. Get ye down into this cistern and bring me
the head of this man. Tetrarch, Tetrarch, command your
soldiers that they bring me the head of Iokanaan. (A
huge black arm, the arm of the executioner, comes forth from
the cistern, bearing on a silver shield the head of Iokanaan.
Salome seizes it. Herod hides his face with his cloak. Hero-
dias smiles and fans herself. The Nazarenes fall on their
knees and begin to pray) Ah ! thou wouldst not suffer me
to kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now.
I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes,

SALOME 105

I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan. I said it; did I not say-
it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now. But wherefore
dost thou not look at me, Iokanaan? Thine eyes that
were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now.
Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up
thine eyelids, Iokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look
at me? Art thou afraid of me, Iokanaan, that thou wilt
not look at me? And thy tongue, that was like a red
snake darting poison, it moves no more, it speaks no words,
Iokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom upon me.
It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red viper stirs
no longer? Thou wouldst have none of me, Iokanaan.
Thou rejectedest me. Thou didst speak evil words against
me. Thou didst bear thyself toward me as to a harlot,
as to a woman that is a wanton, to me, Salome, daughter
of Herodias, Princess of Judaea! Well, I still live, but
thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can do with
it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the birds
of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the
air shall devour. Ah, Iokanaan, Iokanaan, thou wert the
man that I loved alone among men! All other men were
hateful to me. But thou wert beautiful! Thy body was
a column of ivory set upon feet of silver. It was a garden
full of doves and lilies of silver. It was a tower of silver
decked with shields of ivory. There was nothing in the
world so white as thy body. There was nothing in the
world so black as thy hair. In the whole world there was
nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer
that scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on
thee I heard a strange music. Ah! wherefore didst thou
not look at me, Iokanaan? With the cloak of thine
hands, and with the cloak of thy blasphemies thou didst
hide thy face. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the cov-
ering of him who would see God. Well, thou hast seen
thy God, Iokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never see. If
thou hadst seen me thou hadst loved me. I saw tbee, and
I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee! I love thee yet,

106 SALOME

Iokanaan. I love only thee. I am athirst for thy beauty ;
I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples
can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Iokanaan?
Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my
passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I
was a virgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me.
I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire. Ah!
ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me? If thou hadst
looked at me thou hadst loved me. Well I know that
thou wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of Love is
greater than the mystery of Death.

herod. She is monstrous, thy daughter; I tell thee she is
monstrous. In truth, what she has done is a great crime.
I am sure that it is a crime against some unknown God.

herod ias. I am well pleased with my daughter. She has
done well. And I would stay here now.

herod (rising). Ah! There speaks my brother's wife!
Come! I will not stay in this place. Come, I tell thee.
Surely some terrible thing will befall. Manasseh, Issa-
char, Ozias, put out the torches. I will not look at things,
I will not suffer things to look at me. Put out the torches !
Hide the moon! Hide the stars! Let us hide ourselves
in our palace, Herodias. I begin to be afraid.
[The slaves put out the torches. The stars disappear. A great
cloud crosses the moon and conceals it completely. The stage
becomes quite dark. The Tetrarch begins to climb the staircase.

the voice of salome. Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, Io-
kanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter
taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood? Nay; but
perchance it was the taste of love. They say that love
hath a bitter taste. But what matter? what matter? I
have kissed thy mouth, Iokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth.
[A ray of moonlight falls on Salome and illumines her.

herod (turning round and seeing Salome). Kill that woman!
[The soldiers rush forward and crush beneath their shields
Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judcea.

curtain.

THE MAN IN THE STALLS

ALFRED SUTRO

Alfred Sutro was born in London, 1863. He was edu-
cated in his native city and in Brussels. Since 1896, when he
made his first theatrical venture, he has produced a large
number of successful plays, including serious dramas
and light sentimental comedies. His first play — "The
Chili Widow", written in collaboration with the actor
Arthur Bourchier — is an adaptation from the French. " The
Walls of Jericho", "Mollentrave on Women", "The Fas-
cinating Mr. Vanderveldt", and "John Glayde's Honour"
are among the most successful of the earlier plays. Of late,
Mr. Sutro has turned to satirical comedy, the best examples
of which are "The Perplexed Husband" and "The Clever
Ones."

Some of Mr. Sutro's most characteristic work is found
in his numerous one-act plays, many of which were written
as curtain raisers. These plays are well-knit technically
and are particularly well adapted to the purpose for which
they were intended. Mr. Sutro is essentially a man of the
theater, in no sense an innovator; he is content to write
about everyday people in a traditional form.

PLAYS

Plays marked with * are in one act only.
The Cave of Illusion (1900) *The Gutter of Time (1902)
*Ella's Apology (1902) *A Maker of Men (1902)

*A Game of Chess (1902) *Mr. Steinmann's Corner

*The Correct Thing (1902) (1902)

*Carrots (1902) The Salt of Life (1902)

108

THE MAN m THE STALLS

*The Open Door (1903)

Arethusa (1903)

A Lonely Life (1903)

The Walls of Jericho (1904)
*A Marriage Has Been Ar-
ranged (1904)

Mollentrave on Women
(1905)

The Perfect Lover (1905)
(In England, The Price of
Money, 1906)

The Fascinating Mr. Van-
derveldt (1906)

JohnGlayde's Honour(1907)

The Barrier (1907)

The Builder of Bridges (1908)

*The Man on the Kerb(1908)

Making a Gentleman (1909)
*The Man in the Stalls (1911)

The Perplexed Husband
(1911)

The Fire-Screen (1912)
*The Bracelet (1912)

The Clever Ones (1914)

The Two Virtues (1914)

Freedom (1915)
*The Great Redding Street

Burglary (1916)
*The Marriage . . . Will

Not Take Place (1917)
*TheTrap (1918)

The Choice (1919)

"The Cave of Illusion" is published by Grant Richards,
London; "The Fascinating Mr. Vanderveldt", "The Bar-
rier", "John Glayde's Honour ", "Mollentrave on Women",
"The Perfect Lover" (as "The Price of Money"), "The
Walls of Jericho", "Carrots", "The Correct Thing", "Ella's
Apology", "A Game of Chess", "The Marriage . . . Will
Not Take Place", "The Gutter of Time", "A Maker of
Men", "A Marriage Has Been Arranged", "The Open
Door", "Mr. Steinmann's Corner", "The Salt of Life",
"The Builder of Bridges", "The Fire-Screen", "The Per-
plexed Husband", "The Two Virtues", "The Bracelet",
"The Man on the Kerb", are published by Samuel French,
New York; "The Man in the Stalls", "A Marriage Has
Been Arranged", "The Man on the Kerb", "The Open Door"
and "The Bracelet" are published in one volume as "Five
Little Plays" by Brentano's, New York; "Freedom" by the
same.

THE MAN IN THE STALLS

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

BY ALFRED SUTRO

"The Man in the Stalls" was first produced at London in
1911.

Characters

Hector Allen
Elizabeth Allen (Betty)
Walter Cozens

COPTBIGHT, 1911, BY SAMTJEL FbENCH, LTD.

Reprinted from "Five Little Plays", published by Brentano, by permission of
Samuel French.

This play has been copyrighted in America by the author's agents, Messrs. Samuel
French, Ltd., 2fl Southampton Street, Strand, to whom all applications, both in England
and America, should be addressed.

THE MAN IN THE STALLS
i

The sitting-room of a little flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. At
back is a door leading to the dining-room — it is open, and the
dinner-table is in full view of the audience. To the extreme
right is another door, leading to the hall.

The place is pleasantly and prettily, though quite inexpen-
sively, furnished. To the left, at angles with the distempered
wall, is a baby -grand piano; the fireplace, in which afire is burn-
ing merrily, is on the same side, full centre. To the right of the
door leading to the dining-room is a small side-table, on which
there is a tray with decanter and glasses; in front of this, a card
table, open, with two packs of cards on it, and chairs on each
side. Another table, a round one, is in the centre of the room —
to right and to left of it are comfortable armchairs. Against the
rigid wall is a long sofa; above it hang a few good water-colours
and engravings; on the piano and the table there are flowers. A
general appearance of refinement and comfort pervades the room;
no luxury, but evidence everywhere of good taste, and the count-
less feminine touches that make a room homelike and pleasant.

When the curtain rises, Hector Allen, a youngish man of
forty, with an attractive intellectual face, is seen standing by the
dining-table in the inner room, draining his liqueur-glass, with
Walter Cozens to the right of him, lighting a cigarette. Walter
is a few years younger than his friend, moderately good-looking,
with fine, curly brown hair and a splendid silky moustache. His
morning-clothes are conspicuously well-cut — he is evidently
something of a dandy; Hector wears a rather shabby dress-suit,
his boots are aiokward, and his tie ready-made. Betty, a hand-
some woman of thirty, wearing a very pretty tea-gown, is talking
to the maid at the back of the dining room.

Hector puts down his glass and comes into the sitting room,
followed by Walter, Hector is puffing at a short, stumpy little
black cigar.

112 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

hector {talking as he comes through, continuing the conversa-
tion — he walks to the fireplace, and stands with his back to it).
I tell you, if I'd known what it meant, I'd never have taken
the job! Sounded so fine, to be reader of plays for the
Duke's Theatre — adviser to the great Mr. Honeyswill!
And then — when the old man said I was to go to all the
first nights — why, I just chortled! "It's the first nights
that show you the grip of the thing — that teach you
most" — he said. Teach you! As though there were any-
thing to learn! Oh my stars! I tell you, it's a dog's life!

Walter (sitting to left of the round table). I'd change places
with you, sonny.

hector. You would, eh? That's what they all say! Four
new plays this week, my lad — one yesterday, one to-day —
another to-morrow, and the night after ! All day long I'm
reading plays — and I spend my nights seeing 'em! D'you
know, I read about two thousand a year? Divide two thou-
sand by three hundred and sixty-five. A dog's life — that's
what it is!

walter. Better than being a stockbroker's clerk — you be-
lieve me!

hector. Is it? I wish you could have a turn at it, my
bonny boy! Your hair'd go grey, like mine! And look
here — what are the plays to-day? They're either so
chock-full of intellect that they send you to sleep — or they
reek of sentiment till you yearn for the smell of a cabbage!

Walter. Well, you've the change, at any rate.

hector (snorting). Change? By Jove, give me a Punch
and Judy show on the sands — or performing dogs ! Plays
— I'm sick of 'em! And look here — the one I'm off to to-
night. It's adapted from the French — well, we know
what that means. Husband, wife and mistress. Or wife,
husband, lover. That's what a French play means. And
you make it English, and pass the Censor, by putting the
lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate!

betty (coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining
room) . You ought to be going, Hector.

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 113

[She stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other
door into the hall.

hector (disregarding her, too intent on his theme). And I tell
you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick
of the eternal triangle. They always do the same thing.
Husband strikes attitudes — sometimes he strikes the lover.
The lover never stands up to him — why shouldn't he? He
would — in real life. (Betty comes back with his overcoat and
muffler — she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his
neck, and helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time)
He'd say, look here, you go to Hell. That's what he'd say
— well, there you'd have a situation. But not one of the
play writing chaps dares do it. Why not, I ask you ? There
you'd have the truth, something big. But no — they're
afraid — think the public won't like it. The husband's got
to down the lover — like a big tom-cat with a mouse — or
the author 'd have to sell one of his motor-cars! That's just
the fact of it !

betty (looking at the clock on the mantelpiece). Twenty-five
past, Hector.

hector (cheerily). All right, my lass, I'm off. By-bye,
Walter — keep the old woman company for a bit. Good-bye,
sweetheart. (He kisses her) Don't wait up. Now for
the drama. Oh, the dog's life!

[He goes. Betty waits till the hall door has banged, then she
sits on the elbow of Walter's chair, and rests her head on his
shoulder.

betty (softly). Poor Hector!

Walter (uncomfortably) . . . Yes . . .

betty. Doesn't it make you feel dreadful when he talks like
that? (She kisses him; then puts her arms round his neck,
draws his face to her, and kisses him again, on the cheek)
Doesn't it?
[She nestles contentedly closer to him.

Walter (trying to edge away). Well, it does. Yes.

betty (dreamily) . I — like it.

Walter. Betty !

114 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

betty. Yes, I like it. I don't know why. I suppose I'm
frightfully wicked. Or the danger perhaps — I don't know.

Walter (making a futile effort to get up) . Betty

betty (tightening her arms around him). Stop there, and
don't move. How smooth your chin is — his scrapes.
Why don't husbands shave better? Or is it that the for-
bidden chin is always smoother? Poor old Hector! If he
could see us ! He hasn't a suspicion. I think it's lovely —
really, I do. He leaves us here together, night after night,
and imagines you're teaching me bridge.

Walter (restlessly). So I am. Where are the cards?

betty (caressing him). Silly, have you forgotten that this
is Tuesday — Maggie's night out? She's gone — I told her
she needn't wait to clear away. We've arranged master's
supper. Master! You're my master, aren't you?

Walter. ... I don't know what I am . . .

betty. Oh yes you do — you're my boy. Whom 1 love.
There. (She kisses him again, full on the lips) That was
a nice one, wasn't it? Poor old Hector, sitting in his stall
— thinks he's so wonderful, knows such a lot! Yes,
Maggie's qut — with her young man, I suppose. The
world's full of women, with their young men — and hus-
bands sitting in the stalls . . . And I suppose that's
how it always has been, and always will be.

Walter (shifting uneasily). Don't, Betty — I don't like it.
I mean, he has such confidence in us.

betty. Of course he has. And quite rightly. Aren't you
his oldest friend?

Walter (with something of a groan). I've known him since
I was seven.

betty. The first man he introduced me to — his best man
at the wedding — do you remember coming to see us during
the honeymoon? I liked you then.

Walter (really shocked). Betty!

betty. I did. You had a way of squeezing my hand.
. . . And then when we came back here. You know
it didn't take me long to discover

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 115

Walter (protesting). I scarcely saw you the first two or
three years!

betty. No — you were afraid. Oh I thought you so silly!
(He suddenly contrives to release himself — gets up, and moves
to the card-table) Why, what's the matter?

Walter (at the table, with his back to her) . I hate hearing you
talk like this.

betty. Silly boy! (She rises, and goes to him; he has taken
a cigarette out of the box on the table, and stands, there with
his head bent, tapping the cigarette against his hand) Women
only talk "like this," as you call it, to their lovers. They
talk "like that" to their husbands — and that's why the
husbands never know. That's why the husbands are
always sitting in the stalls, looking on. (She puts her arms
round him again) Looking and not seeing.
[She approaches her lips to his — he almost fretf idly unclasps
her arms.

Walter. Betty — I want to say a — serious word . . .

betty (looking fondly at him). Well, isn't what Vm saying
serious?

Walter. I'm thirty-eight.

betty. Yes. I'm only thirty. But I'm not complaining.

Walter. Has it ever occurred to you

[He stops.

BETTY. What?

[Walter looks at her — tries to speak, but cannot — then he
breaks away, goes across the room to the fireplace and stands
for a moment looking into the fire. She has remained where
she was, her eyes following him wonderingly. Suddenly he
stamps his foot violently.

Walter. Damn it! DAMN it!

betty (moving towards him in alarm). WTiat's the matter?

Walter (with a swift turn towards her). I'm going to get
married.

betty (stonily, stopping by the round table). You . . .

Walter (savagely). Going to get married, yes. Married,
married !

116 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

[She stands there and doesn't stir — doesn't speak or try to
speak; merely stands there, and looks at him, giving no sign.
Her silence irritates him; he becomes more and more violent,
as though to give himself courage.

Walter. You're wonderful, you women — you really are.
Always contrive to make us seem brutes, or cowards!
I've wanted to tell you this a dozen times — I've
not had the pluck. Well, to-day I must. Must, do
you hear that? . . . Oh, for Heaven's sake, say
something.

betty (still staring helplessly at him). You . . .

Walter (feverishly). Yes, I, I! Now it's out, at least —
it's spoken! I mean to get married, like other men —
fooled, too, I dare say, like the others — at least I deserve
it ! But I'm tired, I tell you — tired

betty. Of me?

Walter. Tired of the life I lead — the beastly, empty rooms

— the meals at the Club. And I'm thirty -eight — it's now
or never.

betty (sloivly). And how about — me?

WALTER. YOU?

betty (passionately). Yes. Me. Me!

Walter. You didn't think this would last for ever?

betty (nodding her head). I did — yes — I did. Why
shouldn't it?

Walter (working himself into a fury again). Why? You
ask that? Why? Oh yes, it's all right for you — you've
your home and your husband — I'm there as an — annex.
To be telephoned to, when I'm wanted, at your beck and
call, throw over everything, come when you whistle. And
it's not only that — I tell you it makes me feel — horrid.
After all, he's my — friend.

betty. He has been that always. You didn't feel — horrid

— before. . . . Who is she?

Walter. (Shortly, as he turns back to the fire.) That

doesn't matter.
betty. Yes, it does. Who?

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 117

Walter {fretfully). Oh why should we ■

betty. I want to know — I'm entitled to know.

Walter {still with his back to her). Mary Gillingham.

betty. Mary Gillingham!

Walter {firmly, swinging round to her). Yes.

betty. That child, that chit of a girl !

Walter. She's twenty -three.

betty. Whom I introduced you to — my own friend?

Walter {grumbling). Y^hat has that to do with it? And
besides . . . {He suddenly changes his tone, noticing how
calm she has become — he takes a step towards her, and stands
by her side, at the back of the table; his voice becomes gentle
and affectionate) But I say, really, you're taking it aw-
fully well — pluckily. I knew you would — I knew I was
an ass to be so — afraid. . . . And look here, we'll al-
ways be pals — the very best of pals. I'll . . . never
forget — never. You may be quite sure ... of that.
I want to get married — I do — have a home of my own, and
so forth — but you'll still be — just the one woman I really
have loved — the one woman in my life — to whom I owe —
everything.

betty {with a mirthless laugh). Do you tell all that — to
Mary Gillingham?

Walter {pettishly, as he moves aioay). Do I — don't be so
absurd.

betty. You tell her she is the only girl you have loved.

Walter {moving back to the fire, with his back to her).
I tell her — I tell her — what does it matter what I
tell her? And one girl or another — she or some one
else

betty. But you haven't answered my question — what's to
become of me?

Walter {angrily, facing her). Become of you! Don't talk
such nonsense. Because it is — really it is. You'll be as
you were. And Hector's a splendid chap — and after all
we've been frightfully wrong — treating him infernally
badly — despicably. Oh yes, we have — and you know it.

118 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

Lord, there' ve been nights when I have — but never mind

that — that's all over! In future we can look him in the

face without feeling guilty — we can

betty (quietly). You can.

Walter. What do you mean?

betty. You can, because of this girl. Oh, I know, of course!

You'll come here three or four times — then you'll drop off

— you'll feel I'm not quite the woman you want your wife
to know.

Walter {with genuine feeling, as he impulsively steps towards
her). Betty, Betty, what sort of cad do you take me for?
What sort of cad, or bounder? Haven't I told you I'd
never forget — never? And you think you'll pass out of
my life — that I want you to? Why, good Heaven, I'll be
your best friend as long as I live. Friend — yes — what I
always should have been — meant to be! And Hector.
Why, Betty, I tell you, merely talking to-night, as I've
done, has made me feel — different — sort of lifted — a load.
Because I've always had it — somewhere deep down in me

— when I've thought of — him.
betty (calmly). Liar.
Walter (falling back). Betty!

betty. Liar — yes. Why these stupid, silly lies? "Always,
deep down in me!" Where was it, this beautiful feeling,
when you got me to go to your rooms?

Walter (harshly). We needn't

betty. I liked you I've said that — I liked you from the

first. But I was straight enough. Liked you, of course

— but I had no idea, not the slightest. . . . Thought it
fun to play the fool, flirt just a bit. But it was you, you,
you who

Walter (breaking in sulkily and stamping his foot) . Never

mind about who it was.
betty (passionately). Never mind! You dare!
Walter (doggedly). Yes — I dare. And look here — since

you force me to it — that's all rot — yes, it is — just rot.

Just as you like it now, hearing Hector ask me to stop with

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 119

you, and kissing me the moment his back is turned — so
you met me halfway, and more than halfway.

betty. You cur!

Walter. That's what a woman always says, when a man
speaks the truth. Because it is the truth — and you know
it. "The way I squeezed your hand!" D'you think I
meant to squeeze it — in a way ! Why, as there's a Heaven
above me, you were as sacred to me — as my own sister !

betty (quietly, as she sits, to right of the table). What I'm
wondering is — you see, you're the only lover I've had —
what I wonder is, when a man breaks off, tells a woman he's
tired of her, wants to get married — does he always abuse
the woman

Walter (sulkily). I haven't

betty. Degrade, and throw mud on, the love she has had
for him?

Walter (with a bitter shrug). Love

betty (passionately, as she springs to her feet). Love, love, yes,
you — cruel man! Love, what else? I adore you, don't
you know that? Live for you! would give up everything
in the world — everything, everything ! And Walter, Wal-
ter! If it's only that — that you want a home — well, let's
go off together. He'll divorce us — we can get married.
Don't go away, and leave me here, alone with him! I
couldn't stand it — Walter, I couldn't, I couldn't !
[She goes eagerly to him, flings her arms round his neck, and
a dry sob bursts from her.

Walter (very gently). Betty, Betty, you've been so brave
. . . Betty, dear, the horrid things I've said were only
to make you angry, to make you feel what a brute I was,
how well you're rid of me. Oh, I'm not proud of myself!
But look here, we must be sensible — we must, really. . . .
You know, if you were divorced — if I were the co-respond-
ent in a divorce case — I'd lose my berth, get the sack

betty (clinging to him). We could go to Australia — any-
where

Walter. I've no money.

120 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

betty (with a sudden movement, raising her head and leaving
him). And Mary Gillingham has lots?

Walter. It's not for her money that I

betty (with a start). You love her?

Walter (dropping his head, and speaking under his breath).
Yes.

betty (wringing her hands). You do, you do?

Walter. Yes, that's the truth — I do. Oh, Betty, I'm so
frightfully sorry

betty (with a groan) . Then you don't love me any more . . .

Walter. It's not that. But you see

betty (moaning). You don't, you don't!

[She stands there, crushed, overwhelmed, dry-eyed, broken
moans escaping from her; suddenly she hears a key turning
in the lock of the hall-door outside, and rushes to the card-
table.

betty. Hector! Quick, quick — the cards!

[Walter flies to the table, and sits by her side. He seizes one
pack and proceeds to shuffle it, she is dealing with the other.
All this takes only a second. Hector comes in — they both
spring up.

betty. Hector! You're not ill?

hector (kissing her) . Play postponed, my child — bit of luck !
When I got to the theatre I found that the actor-manager's
car had collided with a cab outside the stage-door — he was
thrown through the window — there's a magnificent exit
for you! and has been cut about a bit. Nothing serious.
But the play's postponed for a week. Bit of luck!

Walter (sitting). Not for him.

hector. Oh he has had luck enough — tons of it! I'll get
into a jacket — then we'll have some bridge. See what
progress you've made, Betty!
[He hurries out, and closes the door.

betty (producing a little mirror from her bag, looking into it,
touching her hair). We were only just in time.

Walter (eagerly, as he bends across the table). You're splen-
did — you are — splendid !

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 121

betty. Yes. All very nice and comfortable for you — isn't it?

[She puts the mirror back into the bag.
Walter (coaxingly). Betty.

betty. To-morrow you'll go to her — or to-night perhaps

Walter. To-night — ridiculous! At this hour!

betty. She's a deceitful little cat. I saw her last week —

she never told me

Walter. I don't think she knew. I only proposed to-day.
betty (flinging herself back in her chair, and opening wide

eyes). You — proposed — to-day!

Walter (very embarrassed). Yes — I mean

betty. You — proposed — to-day ! And waited till she had

accepted you — to tell me

Walter (eagerly). Don't be so silly — come, come, he'll be

back in a minute. . . . And, believe me, I'm not worth

making a fuss about!
betty (looking contemptuously at him). That's true.
Walter. Yes, it is, worse luck! I deserve all you've said

to me. And you'll be . . . much better . . . with-
out me.
betty. Better?
Walter. Yes, better, better — any way you choose to put

it! I'm a — but never mind that! — Look here — you'd

like me to stop?
betty. He wants to play bridge.

Walter. Don't you think that I

betty (hearing Hector coming). Sh.

[Hector comes in — she is idly tossing the cards about. Hector

has put on a smoking- jacket — he comes in, very jolly, fussing

around, rubbing his hands, so glad to be home. He sits, to

the right of Betty.
hector. Now for a game!

[He seizes a pack, and spreads out the cards.
betty (leaning back). Not sure that I want to play.
hector. Don't be disagreeable, Betty! Why?
betty (listlessly, as she rises and moves across the room). No

fun, being three.

122 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

hector. Good practice for you. Come on.

betty (leaning against the other table, and turning and facing

them). Besides, he has something to tell you.
hector. Walter?
betty. Yes.
hector (looking inquiringly at Walter). To tell me? What

is it?
betty. That he's engaged.

hector (shouting, as he leans across the table). Never! Wal-
ter! Engaged? You?
Walter (nervously). Yes.
hector (noisily and affectionately). You old scoundrel!

You rascal and villain! Engaged — and you don't come

and tell me first ! Well I — am — damned !
Walter (trying to take it gaily). I knew you'd chaff me

about it.
hector. Chaff you! Silly old coon! why I'm glad! Of

course we shall miss you — but marriage — it's the only

thing, my boy — the only thing! Who is she? Do I

know her?
Walter (mumbling, as he fingers the cards). A friend of

Betty's — I fancy you've met her

hector. Who?

betty. Mary Gillingham. We're the first to know — he

only proposed to-day.
hector. Gillingham, Gillingham. . . . Oh yes, I've seen

her, just seen her, but I don't remember. ... I say,

not the daughter of the sealing-wax man?
Walter. Yes.
hector. Then there's lots of tin! Fine! Oh you artful

old dodger! Is she pretty?

WALTER. So-SO.

betty (still leaning against the table, and looking at them both).

She's excessively pretty. She has yellow hair and blue eyes.
hector (chuckling). And she has caught old Wallie. The

cynical old Wallie who sniffed at women ! Though perhaps

it's the money

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 123

betty. No. He's in love with her.

hector. That's good. I'm glad. And I congratulate you
— heartily, my boy. (He seizes Walter's hand, and wrings
it) We must drink to it! (lie gets up, goes to the side-
table, and pours some whiskey into a tumbler) Charge
your glass, Walter! (Walter rises and goes to the side-table)
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the bride and bride-
groom! (He fills the glass from the syphon and passes it to
Walter, then proceeds to fill his own) Betty, you must
join us.

betty (quietly). No.

hector. You can't toast him in water, of course. Has she
cleared away yet? I'll get you some Hock.
[He puts his glass down and moves to the door at back.

betty. Don't be so silly. I won't drink at all.

hector (amazed). Not to old Walter?

betty (steadily). No.

hector. Why?

betty (almost jeeringly) . Because — old Walter — has been
my lover.

hector (stopping, and staring at her). What?

betty (calmly, looking full at him). My lover . . . these
last two years.

hector (staring stupidly at her). He has been

betty (impatiently, as she taps the floor with her foot). Yes,
yes. How often must I tell you? My lover — don't you
know what that means? Why do you stare at me with
those fat goggle-eyes of yours? He has been my lover —
and now he has fallen in love with this girl and means to
marry her. That's all.

hector (turning towards Walter, who hasnt stirred from the
side-table). What? You?
[Walter remains motionless and silent.

hector (in muffled tones, scarcely able to speak). You! It's
true what this woman says?

betty (contemptuously) . This woman! Don't be so melo-
dramatic! Have you forgotten my name?

124 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

hector {turning fiercely to her y roaring madly). Silence,
Jezebel! (She shrinks back, in alarm, towards the fire)
Your name! Wait a bit, I'll tell you! (He takes a step to-
wards her — she crouches in terror against the wall) You
shall hear what your name is! Just now I'm dealing with
him. (He swings round to Walter) You there, you skunk
and thief! You, you lying hound! I was your best
friend. So you've taken my wife, have you? And now
mean to go off and marry this girl. That's it? Oh, it's
so simple ! Here — come here ■ — sit down. Sit down, I tell
you. Here, in this chair. Shall I have to drag you to it?
I want to keep my hands off you. Here. (Walter has
moved slowly towards him. Hector has hanged down a chair
behind the centre table, Walter sits in it — Hector speaks over
his shoulder to Betty) And you — fetch pen and ink and

paper

betty (in abject panic). Hector

hector (turning fiercely and scolding at her). If you speak
to me I'll brain you too. Just you go in there and fetch
the things. D'you hear? Go. (She moves into the other
room. Hector swings round to Walter) As for you, you're
a scoundrel. A rogue, a thief, a liar, a traitor. Of the
very worst kind, the blackest. Not an ordinary case of a
husband and wife — I trusted you — you were my best
friend. You spawn, you thing of the gutter, you foul-
hearted, damnable slug!

[Betty comes back, dragging her feet, carrying paper and en-
velopes and a stylograph — she puts them on the table.

hector. Not that stylograph — that's mine — his dirty hands
shan't touch it — I could never use it again. Fetch your
pen — yours — you belong to him, don't you? Go in and
fetch it. D'you hear?
[Betty goes into the inner room again.

hector. My wife. And you the man I've done more for
than for any one else in the world. The man I cared for,
you low dog. Used my house — came here because it was
dull at the Club — and took my wife? I don't know why

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 125

I don't kill you. I've the right. But I won't. You

shall pay for it, my fine fellow — you are going to

pay — now.

[Betty brings a pen and an inkstand; she places them on the

table; Hector seizes them and pushes them in front of Walter.

Betty slinks to the other side of the room, and stands by the

sofa.

iiector (to Walter). Now you write. You hear? You
write what I dictate. Word for word. What's the old
brute's name?

Walter. Whose?

hector. Whose! Her father, the sealing-wax man, old
Gillingham?

Walter (staring). Gillingham?

hector. Gillingham. Yes. What is it?

Walter. You want me to write to him?

hector (nodding). To him. Who else? A confession?
I've had that. His name?

Walter (dropping the pen and half rising) . I won't

hector (springing upon him in a mad fury, and forcing him
back into the chair). You won't, you dog! You dare say
that— to me! By Heaven, you will! You'll lick the dust
off this floor, if I tell you! You'll go on your hands and
knees, and crawl ! Sit down, you ! Sit down and take up
your filthy pen. So. (Thoroughly cowed, Walter has taken
up the pen again) And now — his name. Don't make me
ask you again, I tell you, don't. What is it?

Walter. Richard.

hector. Very well, Richard. So write that down. To
Richard Gillingham. I have to-day proposed to your
daughter, and she has accepted me. Got that? She has
accepted me. But I can't marry her — can't marry her —
because I have seduced the wife of my friend Hector
Allen

Walter (appealingly, dropping his pen). Hector!

hector (frantically gripping Walter by the throat, till he takes
up his pen again). The wife of my friend Hector Allen —

126 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

write it — and plainly, you hound, plainly — so — and be-
cause I am taking the woman away with me to-night.

betty (with a loud cry). Hector!

hector (over his shoulder, watching Walter write). Silence,
over there, you ! Hold your tongue ! Go into your room
and put on your things — we've done with you here ! Take
what you want — I don't care — you don't show your face
here again. And you — (he taps his clenched hand against
Walter's arm) write. What are you stopping for? How
far have you got? (He peers over Walter's shoulder)
Because — I — am — taking — the — woman — away — with
— me — to-night.

betty (beside herself, wringing her hands). Hector, Hec-
tor

hector (savagely, as he makes a half -turn towards her). You
still there? Wait a bit. I'll come to you, when I've fin-
ished with him. If you haven't gone and put on your
things, you shall go off without them. Into the street.
You'll find other women there like you. (He turns back
to Walter) Here, you, have you written? (He looks over
Walters shoulder) Go on — I'm getting impatient. Go

on, I tell you. I — am — taking — the

[Walter is slowly writing down the words, Hector standing
over him; Betty suddenly bursts into a peal of wild, uproarious
laughter, and lets herself fall into a chair to the left of tlie
card-table.

hector (madly). You!

[He leaves Walter, and almost springs at her.

betty (brimrning with merriment). Oh, you old donkey!
How we have pulled your leg!

hector (staring at her, stopping dead short). You

betty (through her laughter, choking). Hector, Hector! Con-
ventional situations! The usual stodge! The lover and
husband! You goose, you wonderful old goose!
[Walter, with a mighty ejfort, has pulled himself together, and
roars with laughter too. He jumps up. Hector is standing
there blinking, paralysed.

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 127

Walter (merrily, to Betty). Oh really, you shouldn't. You've
given it away too soon!

betty. Too soon! He'd have strangled us. Did you ever
see such a tiger?

Walter (chuckling hugely). He didn't give the lover much
chance to stand up to him, did he?

betty. And loasn't he original! Dog, hound, villain,
traitor!

Walter. To say nothing of Jezebel! Though, between
ourselves, I think he meant Messalina!

betty. And I was to go into the street. But he did let me
fill my bag!

Walter. I think the playwrights come out on top, I do
indeed. (He goes to Hector, and stands to left of him)
Hector, old chap, here's the letter!

betty (going to the other side of Hector, and dropping a low
curtsey) . And please, Mr. Husband, was it to be a big bag,
or a small bag, and might I have taken the silver teapot?
[Hector has been standing there stupid, dazed, dumbfounded,
too bewildered for his mind to act or thoughts to come to him;
he suddenly bursts into a roar of Titanic, overwhelming
laughter. He laughs, and laughs, staggers to the sofa, falls
on it, rocks and roars till the tears roll down his cheeks. He
sways from side to side, unable to control himself — his laughter
is so colossal that the infection catches the others; theirs be-
comes genuine too.

betty (with difficulty, trying to control herself). The letter!
Old Gillingham! "His name, scoundrel, his name!"

Walter (gurgling). With his hand at my throat! Sit there,
villain, and write!

betty. "I'll deal with you presently! Wait till I've fin-
ished with him!"

Walter. "Into the street!"? At least, they do usually say
"into the night!"

hector (rubbing his eyes and panting for breath) . Oh, you
pair of blackguards! Too bad — no, really too bad! It
was! I fell in, I did! Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, what a night-

128 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

mare! But it wasn't right, really it wasn't — no really!
My Lord, how I floundered — head and shoulders — swal-
lowed it all! Comes of reading that muck every day —
never stopped to think! I didn't! Walter, old chap!
(He holds out his hand) Betty! My poor Betty! (He
draws her towards him) The things I said to you !

betty (carelessly eluding the caress). At least admit that
you're rather hard on the play writing people!

hector (getting up and shaking himself). Oh, they be
blowed ! Well, you have had a game with me ! (He shakes
himself again). Brrrrr! Oh, my Lord! What I went
through !

betty. It was a lark! you should have seen yourself! Your
eyes starting out of your head! You looked like a mur-
derer !

hector. By Jove, and I felt it ! For two pins I'd have

betty. And Mary Gillingham! That's the funniest part!
That you could have thought he was engaged — to her!
[Involuntarily the smile dies away on Walter s face; he turns
and stares at her; she goes on calmly.

betty. When she happens to be the one girl in this world
he can't stand!

Walter (with a movement that he cant control). Betty!

betty (turning smilingly to him). No harm in my telling
Hector — he scarcely knows her! (She swings round to
Hector again) Why, Walter simply loathes the poor girl!
That's what made it so funny! (At the mere thought of it
she bursts out laughing again, and goes on speaking through
her laughter) And I tell you — if you ever hear he's en-
gaged to her — why, you can believe the rest of the story
too!

hector (laughing heartily as he pats Walter on the shoulder).
Poor old Walter! And, d'you know, I was quite pleased
at the thought of his getting married! I was! (He turns
to him) But it's better, old chap, for us — we'd have missed
you — terribly! (With another pat on Walter's shoulder, he
goes to the fire, and drops in the Utter) Mustn't leave that

THE MAN IN THE STALLS 129

lying about! {He turns) Well, by Jove, if any one had

told me. . . . And drinking to him, and all !
betty. If you'll fetch me that glass of Hock now, I will

drink to him, Hector. To Walter, the Bachelor!
hector {beaming). So we will! Good. I'll get it.

[He bustles into the dining room.
betty {moving swiftly to Walter). Well, now's your time.

One thing or the other.
Walter {savagely). You fiend!

betty. I'll go and see her to-morrow — see her constantly —
Walter. Why are you doing this?
betty. You've ruined my life and his. At least, you shan't

be happy.
Walter. And you imagine I'll come back to you — that we'll

go on, you and I?
betty {scornfully). No — don't be afraid! You've shown

yourself to me to-day. That's all done with — finished.

His friend now — with the load off you — but never her

husband. Never!

[Hector comes bustling back, with the bottle of Hock, and a

wine-glass that he gives to Betty — she holds it, and he fills it

from the bottle.
hector. Here you are, my girl — and now, where's my

whiskey? {He trots round to the side table, finds his glass,

and Walter's — hands one to Walter) Here, Wallie — yours

must be the one that's begun — I didn't have time to touch

mine! Here. {Walter takes it) And forgive me, old man,

for thinking, even one minute — {He wrings him by the hand)

Here's to you, old friend. And Betty, to you! Oh,

Lord, I just want this drink!
betty {in cold, clear tones, as she holds up her glass). To

Walter, the Bachelor!

[She drains her glass; Walter has his moment's hesitation;

he drinks, and with tremendous effort succeeds in composing

his face.
hector {gaily). To Walter, the Bachelor! {He drinks his

glass to the dregs and puts it down) And now — for a game.

130 THE MAN IN THE STALLS

Walter. I think I

hector (coaxingly). Sit down, laddie — just one rubber.
It's quite early. Do. There's a good chap. (They all
sit: Hector at back, Betty to the left of him, Walter to the right
— he spreads out the cards — they draw for partners) As we
are — you and Betty — I've got the dummy. (He shuffles
the cards — Betty ads — he begins to deal) That's how I like
it — one on each side of me. Also I like having dummy.
Now, Betty, play up. Oh, Lord, how good it is, how good !
A nightmare, I tell you — terrible! And really you must
forgive me for being such an ass. But the way you played
up, both of you! My little Betty — a Duse, that's what
she is — a real Duse ! (He gathers up his cards) And the
gods are kind to me — I've got a hand, I tell you! I call
No TRUMPS!

[He beams at them — they are placidly sorting their cards. He
puts his hand down and proceeds to look at his dummy, as
the curtain falls.

CURTAIN

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

FREDERICK FENN and RICHARD PRYCE

Frederick Fenn was born at Bishop Stortford in 1868.
He is best known as an adapter of plays and the author of
a number of successful one-act and full-length plays. His
first successful play, "Judged by Appearances", was pro-
duced in 1902, by the popular actor, James Welch. " 'Op-
o'-Me-Thumb", written in collaboration with Richard Pryce,
is the best-known work of either dramatist. It owes its
popularity primarily to the fact that it has often been acted
in this country by Maude Adams.

Richard Pryce was born at Boulogne, France. Like
Frederick Fenn, with whom he collaborated in several plays,
he has adapted plays and is the author of a few original
dramas. He has also written half a dozen novels.

PLAYS (Frederick Fenn)

Plays marked with * are in one act only.

*Judged by Appearances Amasis (1906)

(1902) *His Child (1906)

*The Honorable Ghost (1902) (In collaboration with

A Married Woman (1902) Richard Pryce)

Saturday to Monday (1903) *The Nelson Touch (1908)

(In collaboration with A Welsh Sunset (1908)

Richard Pryce) • Liz the Mother (1909)

A Scarlet Flower (1903) (In collaboration with

The Age of Innocence (1904) Richard Pryce)

*'Op-o'-Me-Thumb (1904) The Gay Lady Doctor (1912)

(In collaboration with (In collaboration with

Richard Pryce) Desmond Donovan)
*The Convict on the Hearth
(1906)

132 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

PLAYS (Richard Pryce)

A Privy Council (1905) (In collaboration with

(In collaboration with Arthur Morrison)

W. P. Drury) Little Mrs. Cummin (1910)

The Dumb Cake (1907) The Visit (1910)

" 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb", "Little Mrs. Cummin", "Privy
Council", "Dumb Cake", "The Convict on the Hearth",
"The Nelson Touch", and "The Visit" are published by
Samuel French, New York.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

BY FREDERICK FENN and RICHARD PRYCE

" 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb " was first produced at London in
1904.

Characters

Madame Jeanne Marie Napoleon de Gallifet Didier

Clem (Mrs.) Galloway

Rose Jordan

Celeste

Amanda Afflick

Horace Greensmith

Reprinted by permission of Samuel French.

Caution. Professionals and amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully
copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States Government, and nobody is
allowed to do this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French,
28 West 38th St., New York City.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

Scene. Working room at Madame Didier's Laundry in
Soho. In front of the large shop window that gives on to the
street there hangs a lace curtain. Upon the glass of the upper
half of a door "Madame Didier, Blanchisserie Franqaise" may
be read backwards.

It is Saturday evening before an August bank-holiday.
Madame with goffering iron is finishing a cap at stage back left.
Rose Jordan stands on a chair putting paper packets of collars
and cuffs into pigeon holes. Clem (Mrs.) Galloway is mending
socks, etc., at small table right. Celeste is sitting on a centre table
marking off collars, etc., in account book, or slipping pink tissue
paper into a stack of shirts, and singing as she swings her feet.
celeste. Eve in her garden she was a lady,

She never grew old n' fady.

She might 'a' bin there to-day-dy,

But she was inquisitive.

I'd never 'a bin s' crazy,

You wait till I'm 'alf a daisy,

See me with a chance to be lazy.
I'd keep you all alive !

madame. You have make out zose bills, Celeste?
celeste (nodding).

Oh wait till I'm 'alf a daisy,
Snakes! I'd send 'em all back to blazy.
You give me the chance to be lazy,
I'd

clem. Couldn't be much lazier than what you are now, I

should think — daisy or no daisy.
celeste. Couldn't I? I'd have a bit of a try !

(Resumes)

136 ' OP-O'-ME-THUMB

Oh when I'm a real lady,

In a barouche I shall parady — {She breaks off sud-
denly) Where's Amanda?

clem (sarcastically). Want a little 'elp with y' singin'?

celeste. Where is Amanda?

rose. Gone to Strahan's.

celeste. What for?

rose. They never sent them things they wrote about.

celeste (stopping in her work). Do they expect us to do
'em this time o' day !

madame (coming down). No. No. Like always you ex-
cite yourself for nothing. Go on. Go on. What is Mon-
day? 'Oliday, is it not? Very well. They close. I
close. I 'ave the things 'ere for Tuesday, hein? You mind
your business. Always wanting to know.

celeste (appeased). Well, you never do know with shops.
It wouldn't be the first time. It was Strahan wanted
the collars dressed in two hours last week, wasn't it,
for some customer or other. I wouldn't 'a' done 'em,
I know. Oh ho. (She hums to herself for a moment or two)
Well, well. When I'm married and 'ave a 'usband to
keep me —

madame. Keep you! Bah, you know nothing, you. A
man wants a wife who will work. Mon Dieu, if one is to
be lazy it will not be the wife. Look at me.

clem (mrs.) galloway (who has gone up to table at back to
fetch more things and who now comes down). You're right,
Madam. 'Usbands is all very well in their way, as I
should be the first to deny, me of course bein' different
and independent so to speak, but when it comes to which
is to do the work

celeste. Listen to Clem.

clem. Not so much of y'r Clem. Mrs. Galloway, if you
please. You seem to forget who I am. I've got me ring,
I 'ave, and me lines if I do come 'ere to oblige — Mr. Gal-
loway 'avin' poor 'ealth — besides private means, bein' a
pensioneer.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 137

celeste. Pensioneer! Four pence a day, isn't it, dear?
— and gone before twelve, they tell me, at the Pig or
Whistle. A fine pensioneer ! You wait until I bring mine
along.

clem. Yes, I daresay there'll be some waitin' to do. What's
your 'usband goin' to be if I may make so bold to
inquire?

celeste. 'Aven't quite made up me mind. But I'm just
about tired of this. I'm not sure as I shan't go and be
a actress for a change, and stand in the limelight and 'ave
bokays thrown at me — 'ere chuck us some of those things,
Rose — (begins to work frantically) — and — and 'ave lords
waitin' at the stage door to take the 'orses out of me
carriage

clem (laughs). You'll be wantin' to be a child of myst'ry
next, like Amanda.

celeste (pausing, seriously). Do you think she is?

clem. Is what?

celeste. A child of myst'ry — what she says I mean. You
know — all that about 'er father and about them jewels as
somebody gives 'er. Do you know she washed that there
shirt again last week. She says it'll be fetched one of
these days and then there'll be a surprise for us.

rose. Surprise! Garn! A little image like 'er? Ain't
room for much up 'er sleeve. Little 'aporth o' mis'ry!

celeste (thoughtfully). Well, I don't know. Things do
'appen, y' know. I wonder 'oo 'er father reely is. (Mys-
tified) She's so close about 'im, ain't she? And then there
is that shirt — there's no goin' against that.

clem (shortly). Lots of customers forgets things.

celeste. Yes, but the care she takes of it. It's bin 'ere
best part of a year, and I don't know 'ow many times she
'asn't dressed it. There may be something in it, y' know.

rose (pulling a long paper parcel out of one of the large pigeon
holes — reading). "Mr. 'Orris Greensmith, to be called
for." (Opening the paper a little and looking inside)
Blest if I don't believe she's done it up again. It 'ad pink

138 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

paper in last week and now it's blue. 'Ve we got any blue
paper, madam? No. I thought not.

clem (interested). She must 'a' bought it.

celeste. There.

rose. Well! It'll never be fetched. If 'e's 'er mash why
doesn't 'e come 'ere and fetch it?

celeste. She says it's a sort of a token, see? while 'e's
away. Something to 'old by, she says. And then, 'e does
send 'er things.

clem (weightily). 'As anybody seen 'em?

celeste. N-no, but there was a brooch, I b'lieve, and a
necktie.

clem (coming to the table centre to fetch scissors left and
pausing in her work to gossip). Well, why doesn't she wear
'em? That's it, y' see. Why doesn't she wear 'em?

celeste (as if struck by this for the first time). Yes. Why
doesn't she?

clem (sits at table right and talks confidentially). That's
where the test comes in. Why doesn't she wear 'em —
'stead of that bit of crape, say? Not that I've anything
to say against that. She 'as plenty of deaths in 'er
family — that I will say for 'er.

rose (contemptuously). Lots of people 'as relations die.
Any one can.

clem (generously). No, give everybody their due, I say,
and she does 'ave her afflictions. I've been bereaved
meself and I know what it is.

rose. Crape's cheap enough. And she don't ask us to
none of 'er funerals.

clem (forgetting Amanda and showing an inclination to lose
herself in pleasant retrospect) . Fun'rals — the f un'rak I've
been to in my time! There was me sister's 'usband (she
goes back to her place right as she speaks) — all my family's
married well, that I am thankful to say — and when she
lost 'im she done the thing 'andsome I tell y'. (To
Celeste) Gimme them vests — no — there by the socks.
Under y' nose, stupid! There was as many as three

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 139

mournin' coaches an' a 'earse with plumes — and the
'atbands ! — well ! — and afterwards we —

celeste. That'll do, Clem. We know all about that —
and y' cousins too as died at 'Ighb'ry. It's Amanda I'm
talking about, not you. I wonder whether she could show
us one of them presents. Good mind to ask 'er. Why
don't she come in?

rose. Gone a errand, I tell y'.

celeste. Well, she might be back be now, I should think.
Talk about 'ares and tortoise shells! I'd 'a' done it on
me 'ead. She's a fair crawler, Amanda is.

rose (laconically). Legs is short.

celeste. So's time, and I don't want to be 'ere all
night.

madame (coming down). She is little, but she is good. She
work. She does not talk, talk, talk. She is not singing
when she should be working. Where should I be, me,
with another like you? And this Saturday and I forced
to go out at five! Five, mon Dieu, and it wants but ten
minutes.
[She goes up left right.

celeste (absently). I wonder whether she's got anybody
to take 'er out a Monday. Think she 'as?

rose. It'd be a funny sort o' feller as 'd want to. (She
looks over her shoulder towards the glass door) 'Ere she is.
'Ere's Mandy.

[The door right is pushed open and Amanda Afflick comes in
backwards pidling after her a washing basket nearly as large
as herself. She is an odd, forlorn looking little figure with
big eyes and a pathetic expression. She has yet an air of
being quite capable of taking care of herself.

rose. Well, Craipe.

madame. Ah, you have come back. You have brought the
money. (Amanda hands her a paper and some loose change)
That is right. Now I may go and you will help these
good-for-nothings to finish.
[She takes the cap on its stand and puts it on end of table

140 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

back, then goes into inner room left whence she returns a mo-
ment or two later with her cloak.

celeste (to Amanda). Didn't 'appen to meet ch' father,
did y'?

clem. We thought perhaps as you was gone s' long that
you'd ran away with that mash o' yours — 'im as goes with-
out 'is shirt. 'Orris Whatsaname.

amanda. Oh. Didy'? (She sidles past Clem who is leaning
over a basket and giving her an intentional "shove," sends her
sprawling across it) Now then, Mrs., can't y' make room
for a lady?

clem (getting up, and angry). They don't teach y' manners
in the work'us, do they, Clumsy?

amanda. You'll find out when you get there, dear.

rose (linking arms with Celeste left, coming towards Amanda
in front of table center) We've got a new bow to-day.
[She points to a band of black crape round Amanda's arm.

celeste. So she 'as! Where did y' git that, S'rimp?

[Amanda arranges the bow on her arm, pulling out the ends.

amanda. I've been doin' a little shoppin' this afternoon,
and I bought this Rembrandt in case you was took off
sudden, S'leste. S'leste! (She gives a little chuclde) It
is a name, ain't it? Where did y' git it? Off the front of
a shop, eh?

Pretty Celeste

'Ad a very weak chest.

If 'er chest 'd been stronger

Me tale 'd been longer.

[She hoists herself on the table. Clem and Rose laugh shrilly.

Celeste flushes.
celeste. Weak chest y'self. What's wrong with my chest?
amanda (sitting on table). Bit narrer, dear, isn't it? But

p'raps it's the cut o' y' bodice. Some of those bodice-

'ands can spoil things a treat, can't they?
celeste. What do y' know about it. You shut y' face.

You! you ain't got no figger, you never dresses, you ain't

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 141

got enough 'air to go in a locket, and every feller I know
says as you're a bloomin' little monkey without a stick.
So, now, there!

Madame (bustling into outdoor things and interposing to pre-
vent the quarrel developing). Now, now, now! One would
think that in life there was nothing to do. You quarrel,
you talk, you sing. Do I sing? Mon Dieu, no. Celeste
she sing till she make my 'ead ache, and then it is you.
(To Amanda, icho gets off table) And you all talk, talk,
talk like I don't know w T hat. For shame. Now I go, and
you, Celeste, will go to Madame Jones with 'er things —
they are listed, eh? — and Mrs. Galloway will take M.
Gigot 'is waistcoat, and Rose, you will not forget Miss
Smeet's dress. She must 'ave it to-night. Now quick all
of you. Amanda will wait for me. I shall not be long.
Now attention! No more singing, do you 'ear? You can
sing if you want, in the street, and then you will be run in
for drink to punish you.
[She goes out left. Rose jumps off her chair.

rose. Is she gone? Lord, I wish it was Monday! I shan't
git up all to-morrow so's to rest meself. Do 'ope it'll be
fine.

clem. I expect it will. Makes such a difference, bank
'oliday, don't it? P'tickler when it's 'Am'stead.

rose. Course it's 'Am'stead. What d' you think.

clem (crossing to Rose and Celeste right). We should 'a' gone
there too, only for Mr. Galloway 'avin' a aunt at Green-
wich — though of course bein' married I'm different, so to
speak. We shall go be tram, I expect, and then there 's
th' 'ill in the Park, an' the 'eath close by an' all. But I
don't know as I shouldn't like to be goin' with y'.

rose (half ignoring her). Wish you was, dear. (Turning to
Celeste) S'leste, you an' Albert will be ready, won't you?
You must be 'ere first thing, cause of me and my friend
pickin' y' up.
[Clem goes up left, presently returns to her work right.

celeste. We'll be ready. Rather. What ho! (Seeing

142 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

Amanda, who has been looking from one to another and who
stands a little bit wistfully outside the group) Well, Mandy,
got someone to take y' out Monday, eh?

amanda (starts and pulls herself together) . I — I don't know
as I can go out at all a Monday. Y' see prop'ly speakin'
I'm in mournin'.

celeste. You're always in mournin' 'oliday time — you was
at Easter, too. I believe meself

amanda (quickly). Well, so I was. I lost me aunt on the
mother's side just before Good Friday. This (she touches
crape bow) is for me cousin's niece as passed away quietly
last week in — in Kensington. We — we 'ad been estranged
for some time, but now she is gone I bear 'er no malice,
and she shall never 'ave it to say as I didn't pay 'er proper
respect. And besides I don't know as I care to go out in
my circumstances.

celeste. Your circumstances ! What are they?

amanda. Oh, well — till — till 'e comes for me, y' know.

rose. Till 'e comes for 'is shirt, eh? — the tall 'andsome
stranger as none of us 'as never seen — n' never wont.
(She jumps on a chair again and takes out parcel) Gam.
You've made it all up about 'im, I believe. "Mr. 'Orris
Greensmith, to be called for " ! "Miss Amanda Afflick, to
be called for " ! That's more like it. 'Ere, Clem! Ketch.
[She pitches parcel to Mrs. Galloway.

amanda (starting forward) . Give it 'ere.

clem (holding it high). Y' been washin' it again, Crapie,
'aven't y'?

amanda. Give it 'ere. 'Tain't yours.

clem. Ketch, S'leste.
[She throws it to Celeste.

celeste. Better not wash it any more. It's gettin' so
thin it '11 blow away one of these days.

amanda (fiercely). Give it me.

celeste. Not so fast.

amanda. Give it to me!

celeste. Tell us the truth then. You been coddin' us

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 1 43

I about it all this time, 'aven't you? 'Orris or whatever 'e's
called 'as left it 'ere didn't take no notice of y' at all, now
did 'e?

amanda (at back of centre table as Celeste dances round with
shirt). Didn't 'e? P'raps 'e's never wrote to me neither,
letters and letters on scented paper with crests and coats
o' arms — and sealing wax too. You're jealous all the lot
o' y'! Give it 'ere. You'll mess it. Oh (half crying)
you'll mess it and 'e might come for it to-day. Give it 'ere.

clem. Let 'er 'ave it, S'leste.

celeste (holds it high). If I do will y' show me that brooch?

amanda. What brooch?

celeste. You know. The one you told us about. The
minnycher set in diamonds.

amanda (affecting unconcern). Oh, 'aven't I shown it to y'?

celeste. No n' none of 'is presents. If I give it y', will y'?

amanda (hesitates) . I — I don't know where I put it.

celeste. Well then the bracelet with the turquoise.

amanda. I — I lent that to me cousin for 'er niece's funeral.
She 'asn't sent it back yet.

celeste. Well then one of the other things then — some
presents as 'e's give y\ will y'?

amanda. Give me my shirt.

celeste. Will y' then?

amanda. All right.

celeste. There y' are, Kipper! Ketch!

[Amanda catches the shirt and with her back to the others
gently fondles it for a moment as a mother might fondle a
child. Then pulling a chair forward and climbing it she
puts the parcel safely away on a shelf.

celeste. Seein's believin' y' know, and when we've seen —
no 'anky-panky mindje ! — some jewel or something.

amanda. All right.

clem (indulgently) . Let 'er alone, S'leste. That'll do.

amanda (standing on chair to put away the shirt, turns fiercely) .
'Ere what's it got to do with you. You keep your oar
out of my wheel. I can take care of meself, Mrs. Clemen-

144 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

tina William Galloway. You think just because I'm not
twelve feet 'igh and six foot round like some people as I
can't 'old me own with a pack of chatterin' girls like
S'leste 'ere and Rose Allelujah Jordan. One more river
to cross! What ho! I spurn the lot of you. You're no
more to me than a herd of buzzin' flies. (Quieting down)
I go 'ome from 'ere and I set on the sofa and read 'is letters,
and all what 'appens in this 'ouse o' bondage is no more to
me than a dream of the night!

clem. Does 'e know what your temper is?

rose. Little spitfire!

amanda. There, dear, I don't mean it. Only y' see when
y'r'ead's full of more important things and there's wonder-
ful changes loomin' before y' it's apt to make y' a bit 'asty.
There, Clem, (goes to her) I didn't mean to be cross. One
of these days you shall know all.

celeste (impressed in spite of herself). When did y' 'ear
from 'im last?

amanda. Wednesday week — no, Tuesday it would be.

rose. Did 'e send y' anything then?

amanda. 'E's goin' to.

celeste. Something nice!
[Amanda nods.

celeste. Is it a ring?

AMANDA. No.

clem. 'E's too sharp for that, eh, Mandy?

amanda. Better than that. (Gets on the table again) It's —
it's a hairloom — one of those things you wear in it at the
op'ra.

celeste. I know — a tarara.

amanda. Yes. (The girls stop working and loll on the table
listening open-mouthed) It sticks in y'r 'ead with spikes
and it's got diamonds and em'rals and stars all round —
it sticks up like a crown and it glitters — fit to blind y\

celeste. 'E must 'ave a lot o' money.

rose. Seems to chuck it about, don't 'e?

celeste. But you ain't seen 'im again?

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 145

amanda. No. But 'e's comiii'.

celeste. 'Ere?

amanda. Yes. There's a understandin', y' see. There's

clouds on the horizon — that why there's all this mystery.

But when 'e fetches 'is shirt — it's a sort of a sign, see — I

shall know that bright days are in store.
clem (joining the table group after affecting indifference). But

what I want to know is — me of course 'avin' a 'ome of

me own and bein' in a responsible p'sition so to speak —

what I w^ant to know — is 'e going to marry y'?
amanda. When 'e's asked me father.
rose. Asked y' father?
amanda. Everybody respectable does that. A young fella

comes along and 'e says, isn't she beautiful, 'e says, I'd die

for 'er, I wish she'd walk on me, through my 'eart first.

But 'e don't say nothing to 'er, not till 'e's been to 'er

father — if 'e's any class, y' know.
rose. But you're not beautiful. I'm a lot better lookin'

than what you are and I shouldn't like any chap to go to

my father.
amanda (sweetly). Of course if y' father 'appens to be doin'

a bit in 'Olloway it makes a difference.
rose. 'Olloway! Jail bird y'self! I don't believe a word

of it. I don't believe

celeste. Easy, Rose. (Pulling her away) Let's 'ear. (To

Amanda) 'As 'e seen y' father?
amanda. Not yet — because — because of law suits, and then

there's a missin' will, y' see.
celeste. Missin' will?
amanda (setting herself again on table centre). Well, there

should be rights, but I think we'd got over that. Y' see

it's like this: My father wanted me to grow up without

any rank or pearls or carriages so as I shall be loved just

for myself alone

clem. She's coddin'. She's only a workus girl and never

'ad no father.
amanda. I'm not. It's true. I've thought about it and

146 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

dreamt about it till I know it's true. Besides you'll see.
I'm goin' to 'im in oh such a little while.

celeste. And what about 'Orris?

amanda. I shall ask 'im if 'e loves me passionately, and if
'e says yes, I shall lay one white jew'ld 'and in 'is, and look
into 'is pleadin' eyes and say, 'Orris, because you loved me
truly when I was pore and in disguise, you shall 'ave your
reward.

celeste (to the others). It sounds all right, don't it?

clem (rises). 'Ere, come along, girls. What's the good o'
'angin' about listenin' to all this rubbish when we got these
things to take 'fore we can go. 'Ere, bustle up, S'leste.
The old woman '11 be back again mongdewing like Lord-
save-us-all if she finds they ain't gone. (Celeste and Rose
go into inner room to put on their hats and coats) You show
us that present, Corpsie, or find some one to take y' out a
Monday, and then p'raps we'll see about believin' y\
Come, Rose.
[She goes into inner room left.

amanda (absently and waving her hand) . I have always loved
you, 'Orris. Now your patience is rewarded. Rise and
take me to my carriage.

rose (putting on her hat and helping Celeste with her coat as
she and Clem reappear with their things). Carriage! You
find somebody with a moke and a barrer to take y' to
'Amstead.

amanda (loftily). I'm not goin' on Monday. Bank 'olidy!
It's just for ordinary people as 'ave no prospex and nothing
better to think of.

rose. Oh, indeed. (She picks up basket back centre) Well,
I 'ope, Miss Amander AfBick, as you'll enjoy yours all
alone by y'r own self with nobody asked y' to go with 'em !

clem. Don't git run away with by a earl or anything like
that while we're out.

celeste. So long, Corpsie. Y' got to show us one of them
presents, y' know. 'Ere, wait for me, Rose.
[They troop out left with their packages.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 147

amanda (when the door has closed behind them sits still for a
moment or two. When she lifts her face it is seen to be work-
ing. To herself). Monday! I should like to be goin' to
'Amstead — or anywheres. They might 'a' asked me to go
with 'em. Somebody might. Nobody never won't.
Never, never, never. 'Oo wants me? 'Oo could? I
couldn't. Oh, well.

[She sniffs drily and getting up and moving to rack climbs the
chair again and takes down the rescued shirt. Very carefully
and lovingly she refolds it in its covering, holds it to her for a
moment and puts it back on the shelf. She is turning once
more to the room when the door is flung open and Horace
Greensmith enters right. He is a young workman of suf-
ficiently ordinary appearance, the type of navvy who may
always be seen in London breaking up main thoroughfares
with sledge-hammer and wedge.

Horace. 'Ere, two-foot-nothing. Where's Mother Didier?

amanda (getting off chair quickly). Oh, Mr. Greensmith! I
thought you was dead. Oh! (Sits) Oh!

Horace. Mr. Greensmith! You know my name. And
who might you be to think I was dead?

amanda. Oh — you must excuse me — but I did indeed.
[She puts her hand over her heart.

Horace. Did y'. Well, I'm jolly well not.

amanda (faintly) . Oh, it's like one from the grave. I shall
be all right in a minute.

Horace. Well, be quick about it. Now are y' better!
Very well, then, touchin' a shirt I left 'ere. Has the old
woman sold it or lost it? Is she goin' to fork it out or
does she want me to summons her for it? Go an' arsk 'er.
Look slippy.

amanda. It's all right, Mr. Greensmith. It's been took
pertikler care of.

[Fetches it, and undoing the paper in which it is wrapped,
displays the shirt to him proudly.

Horace. Jeroosalem! Did y' wash it yesterday?

amanda. Yes, Mr. Greensmith.

148 'OP-0-ME-THUMB

Horace. Not so much o' y' Mr. Greensmith. 'Oo told y'
to wash it yesterday! Did the old woman twig I was
comin' ?

amanda. No, Mr. — 'Orris. I've washed it every week,
ever since you left it so as to 'ave it ready for you.

Horace. S'help me, Jimmy, you must be 'ard up for some-
thing to do! Y' don't think I'm going to pay for all that,
doy'?

amanda. Oh, no, Mr. Greensmith. If you was to stuff the
money down me throat wild horses wouldn't make me
swallow it.

Horace. H'm! Well, I ain't going to. What's the damage,
anyhow?

amanda. We don't want you to pay anything, reelly.

Horace. Oh, we don't, don't we! That suits me Al. You
may stick over the door then, Washers by appointment to
'Orris Greensmith, Esquire. Do you do all y'r work like
that? Is this a charitable institution or what is it?

amanda. Oh, no, Mr. 'Orris, we aren't charitable, oh,
not at all. You see we — that is / thought we should never
see you no more. You'd been away so long — there seemed
nothing else to think

Horace. Well, I'm jiggered. Deaders on the free list, eh?
'Oly Moses!

amanda. You don't think it was a liberty, do you?

Horace {looks at her a moment and then bursts out laughing).
Strike me silly if I ever came across anything quite as
dotty before. I was dead, was I, and this was a blasted
souvenir. 'Oo the blazes wanted a blasted souvenir of me?
Not you!

amanda. I know it was a liberty, Mr. Greensmith.

horace. 'Ere, 'andle me carefully. I shall faint.

amanda. I'm very sorry if you're angry.

horace. Was you 'ere when I come before?

amanda {eagerly). Oh, yes, Mr. Orris. It was at a quarter
to five one Wednesday — don't you recklekt? It was
in October, the 15 th and there was a crool fog all the

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 149

morning. You was coughin' and saying things about the

weather.
Horace. Was I?
amanda. Don't you remember?
Horace. I remember the fog — but then I remember a lot

o' fogs.
amanda. I've thought of it every day since.
Horace. 'Ere, what are you anyway?
amanda. I'm a orphin. I don't say so but I am — only to

you I mean. I — what'll you think of me, Mr. Greensmith?

— I — I was born in the Union.
Horace. I got no call to think one way or the other.
amanda. I wouldn't 'a' told no one else. But I couldn't

tell you — well, what I tell the others.
Horace. The others? Are there any more 'ere like you?
amanda. Oh, no, I don't think there's any others anywhere

like me.
Horace. No, I dessay not.
amanda. Of course, I'm not very tall. We don't grow much

in the work'ouse — but some o' them large girls is very

fickle, don't you think so, Mr. Greensmith?
Horace. No girls is any good.
amanda. Oh, Mr. Orris, you ain't married, are y'?
Horace. Not much.
amanda (relieved). Oh — I thought jes fer a moment — you

mustn't mind me. Oh, I am glad.
Horace. Married. Yah. Knows too much about it.
amanda. I'm glad ye're not married, any way. Y' see, Mr.

Greensmith, if you won't think it a liberty what I am tell-
ing you, I always thought of you as a sort of fairy prince,

y' see; and they aren't never married, are they?
Horace (stretches out one leg and looks at it dubiously). 'Ere,

my 'ead '11 go if I stop much longer. A fairy — you've

been ill, 'aven't you?
amanda. Oh, no, Mr. 'Orris, I'm never ill. I'm very strong,

and work! Well, you should see me on a busy day! It's

only

150 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

Horace. Only what?

amanda. Well, when you ain't got much of y'r own you
do dream about beautiful things, don't you? That's how
I came to think of you.

Horace. Thank you — very kind of you, don't mention it.
(Pause) Well, chuck us the shirt.

amanda (brings it to him sloioly). I suppose you'll send us
some other things.

Horace. Don't know; can't say. (Amanda furtively wipes
one eye) Hello. What's the matter with y'?

amanda. Oh, nothing.

Horace. What's that crape for?

amanda. I say it's for relations.

Horace. Oh, well, pull up your socks and grin, y' can't
'ave y' relations always, y' know.

amanda. I never 'ad no relations.

Horace. Well, what d' y' wear the bow for then? Y' don't
know what y're talking about. Y' wears it for your re-
lations and you never 'ad none. Rottin' sort of goin' into
mourning that. Where's y' father? (Amanda shakes her
head) Oh, well — where's y' mother, anyway?

amanda. She's dead — she died when I was quite little — oh,
well, littler than I am now. But it ain't for 'er.

Horace. 'Oo is it for?

amanda. You won't tell the other girls, will y'?

Horace. No. What should I want t' go jawin' about you
for?

amanda. You see, I tell them that I got a father who's rich
— ever so rich — and who's coming to take me away, see,
like in a story. I'm in disguise now, but one day 'e'll
come and say "Apparel 'er in ermine," and then I shall go
away and be a lady. I used to think he would really
come, but now I guess 'e's dead, though I tell them 'e's
comin'. I don't wear it for 'im though. I keep on changin'
'oo it's for. Y' see I felt I must wear it. (Looks up shyly)
But I can take it off now, Mr. 'Orris.
[A pause.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 151

Horace. Well of all. Give us the shirt.

amanda. Are y' goin' at once?

Horace. Well, since you are so pressin' I got about 'alf a

minute t' waste. Now then.
amanda. Nothin', I jes wanted to see you. Y' can smoke

if y' like.
Horace. Make meself at 'ome, eh, and what for!

[Sits on table.
amanda (coming near to him left standing beside him). Y*

said y' wasn't married. Are y' in love, Mr. Greensmith?
Horace. Oh, chuck it. What's that to do with you?
amanda. I want to know pertickler.
Horace. Well, I ain't jes' now.
amanda. I expect lots o' girls is in love with you.
Horace. Oh, yes. I can't 'ardly get down the street for 'em.
amanda. You wouldn't say I was pretty, would y', Mr.

Greensmith?
Horace. I 'aven't thought about it.
amanda. You wouldn't think about it, would y'?

Horace (indulgently). W-ell

amanda. Eh? but looks ain't everything, are they? Some

o' them pretty girls they aren't content when one feller

likes 'em, they wants a lot o' chaps to say as they're

beautiful.
Horace. Don't I know it? 'Orris Greensmith ain't goin'

to be one of them.
amanda. You ain't very 'asty, are you?
Horace. Middlin'. What's up?
amanda. I don't hardly like to tell y'.
Horace. 'Ere, what y' been doin' of?

[Stops in act of lighting pipe and stares at her with match in

his hand.
amanda (wriggling in front of him). I want to tell y', Mr.

Greensmith, but I'm afraid you won't like it.
Horace. Not knowing, can't say. Stand still, can't y'?
amanda. Y' might turn round, will y', and look out the

winder? I don't like bein' looked at — then I'll tell y'.

152 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

Horace (stares at her hard a minute). Well, there ain't much

to look at, is there? Now then.

[Turns round and lights up pipe.
amanda. Y' see — y' see — it's like this, Mr. 'Orris. You

comin' in and seein' me last year and never comin' 'ere

again all the girls what's 'ere says as 'ow you were in love

with me.
Horace (turning round promptly). What! Me! Wodder

they take me for? In love ! Lord save us.

amanda. Y' know girls will talk, Mr. 'Orris.

Horace. Yuss, they talks right enough if you give them 'alf

a chance. Well, is that what y' wanted to tell me, 'cause

if so y' could 'a' kep' it to y'self .
amanda. That ain't all.
Horace. 'Ope y' jolly well told 'em I wasn.
amanda. No. I didn't tell 'em that.
Horace. D'y' mean to tell me a pack o' girls thinks as I —

[Roars with laughter. Amanda stands shamefaced and

nervous.
amanda. I 'oped y' wouldn't laugh, Mr. 'Orris.
Horace. Wouldn't laugh. Ho, no ! but it is a bit thick, isn't

it! So I'm in love with you, am I? Would y' like t' get on

the table and then y'r lovin' 'usband could give y' a kiss.

[Amanda begins to get on table.
Horace (amazed). Did y' think I was really goin' to kiss y'?
amanda. I should like y' to kiss me, Mr. 'Orris.
Horace (sinks into chair). Phew. 'Ere, I'm gettin' 'ot.

Give us a chance. You go too quick fer me.
amanda (squatting on the table and smoothing her dress and

pulling it over her boots) . I didn't know as gentlemen didn't

like bein' kissed.
Horace. 'Ere, let's look at y'.

[Pause.
amanda (looking at him diffidently). You are 'andsome,

aren't you, Mr. 'Orris, but I s'pose you know that.
Horace. I've 'eard something about it.
amanda. That ain't all what I told y' jes' now.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 153

Horace. What!

amanda. All the other girls they've got fellers to give 'em
things.

Horace. You don't say so. Well, you ain't goin' to catch
me

amanda. Oh, no, but I didn't like their sayin' as nobody
ever giv' me anything, so I bin tellin' them as you gave me
lots an' 'eaps o' things — dimonds and joolery and watches
— 'andsome, y' know. I didn't know as you'd come back.
I'd waited so long — and at last I went into mournin' —
but I kep' on sayin' about the presents and letters, and now
I 'aven't even anything to be in mournin' for, and they'll
say as they always knew as I was kiddin', and (sniffs)
they didn't — they reelly thought it was true what I told
them. I know it was a liberty, Mr. 'Orris, but I 'oped you
wouldn't mind.

Horace (w histles. Slowly). They thinks as I've been stuffing
you up with presents.

amanda. Yes, Mr. 'Orris.

Horace. Well, you've just about made a nice mess of
things, ain't y'?

amanda. Couldn't you

Horace. Couldn't I do it really. Not much.

amanda. I didn't mean that, but as you ain't dead couldn't
you go on sayin' nothin' and let me go on pretendin'?

HORACE. No.

amanda. It wouldn't cost y' nothin'. Why won't y'?

Horace. Yes. Why won't I?

amanda (walking away very much downcast). I thought you

might like to oblige a lady.
Horace. What next! (Amanda goes up to window and dries

her eyes with her apron) What 'r y' snuffling about, y'

little beggar?
amanda. Nothin', Mr. 'Orris.
Horace. They must be a precious lot o' mugs them girls if

they swaller a tale like that. I never heard o' such a thing.

[He leans against table with his back to audience.

154 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

amanda. They didn't believe it for a long while, but now

they believes it, an' about me father, too.

Horace. Father! Didn't y' say he was a gonner

amanda (faintly and tearfully) . I don't know, though I guess.

But (rather proudly) they think I've got a father as rich as

ever 'e could be, and 'andsome, more 'andsome even than

you.
horace. Pretty sort o' father to leave you in this 'ole then.
amanda. They think 'e's comin' to fetch me.
Horace. Best 'urry up I should say.
amanda (gives a little gesture). Oh, don't you see! I got

nothing, Mr. 'Orris — nothing.

[She subsides and burying her face in the hollow of her arm

cries silently. Pause.
horace. 'Ere, fuDny, you needn't drown the place out.

Tell 'em what you blasted well like. I don't care. (Kicks

a clothes basket) I don't care.
amanda. Oh, Mr. 'Orris.

horace. Yes, oh, Mr. 'Orris, but you don't catch me com-
ing 'ere no more.
amanda. You won't come 'ere again!
horace. No fear. Is it likely? What d'ye take me for?
amanda. Then I don't know as I'll tell 'em anything then.
horace. Suit yourself.

amanda. I'd rather — oh, I don't care what they think.
horace. Look 'ere, nipper. (He comes to her) I'm goin'

to talk like a father to you. You're puttin' y'r money on

the wrong 'orse — not as I'm a wrong'un mindje, but if

you was to talk to some chaps like this

amanda (quickly). Oh, but I wouldn't.

horace. That's all right then. Now you give me my

shirt and I'll be off and (generously) you tell those girls just

what you damn well please.
amanda (looking at the parcel lingeringly) . You're goin' to

take it.
horace. Time I did, isn't it?
amanda. I shan't 'ave nothin' to remember y' by.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 155

Horace. Would y' like a lock o' me 'air? 'Ere — 'ere's a
present for y\ (He takes a pin out of his tie) Gold pin,
42 carat, diamond mounted, pearl centre, em'rald border
encrusted with rubies. (Polishes it on his sleeve) New cut
2-9. There, my dear.

amanda (delighted). Oh, Mr. 'Orris!

Horace. Now we're quits.

amanda (excitedly). I did want something to show to
S'leste, and it is lovely, lovely, but — but

Horace. What now?

amanda. It means as you're goin' for ever. Couldn't —
couldn't you keep it and not

Horace. Not what?

amanda. Not go. It — it's like you dyin' all over again.

Horace. Well of all the treats

amanda (with a new tlwught). Where are y' goin' now?

Horace. 'Ome, I s'pose.

amanda. We — we do send things

Horace. What are y' drivin' at?

amanda. Say I was to bring y' this. Or if you'd wait a
little bit I might carry it out for you. It's nice strollin'
in the summer evenin's, Mr. 'Orris, and it'd be no trouble.

Horace (stooping, with his hands on his knees, and thus bringing
his face on to a level with hers). Come with me, d'y' mean?

amanda. Yes.

noRACE. Yes. We could go for strolls every evenin', eh?

amanda (with a long breath) . Oh — ye-es.

Horace (mimicking her). Ye-es! What d' y' think my
friends 'd say? W T hy, as we was walkin' out.

amanda. J wouldn't mind, Mr. 'Orris.

horace. But what price me?

amanda. I shouldn't expect y' to marry me.

horace. Much obliged. Thank y'.

amanda. I didn't even dream as y'd marry me really.

horace. Well then, if you was to come messin' about with
me what'd your girls 'ere say? You don't want to lose
y' character, I s'pose.

156 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

amanda. / wouldn't mind, Mr. 'Orris.

hokace. So 'elp me, Bob. You don't seem to mind any-
thing. (He walks half-way to the door and pauses) 'Ere.
Are all o' you girls goin' out a Monday?

amanda. The others are, Rose and S'leste and Clem. —
that's Mrs. Galloway.

Horace. But what about you?

amanda. I — I'm supposed to be in mournin'.

Horace. 'As nobody asked y'? (Amanda hangs her head)
'As nobody asked y'?

amanda. I — (she bites her lips) — I can't pretend any more.
(Breaking down) No. Nobody's never asked me. (She
sobs) I s'pose now nobody never will. I see 'em all start
times and times with their fellas. Oh, it don't matter.
Only I didn't mean as you should know.
[Sits.

Horace. Where are they goin'?

amanda (sobbing gently). 'Amstead. Oh, it don't matter,
Mr. 'Orris.

Horace. Yes it do. (He moves about restlessly for a minute,
then stares at her intently) Look 'ere. Shall I take y'?

amanda. D' y' mean it?

Horace. Did I say it? Very well then.

amanda. Oh, Mr. 'Orris.

Horace. I'll get a trap and we'll go to 'Amstead.

amanda (in ecstasy). Oh, Mr. 'Orris.

Horace. All right. That's settled. I'll call for you 'ere
at nine sharp Monday mornin'.

amanda. Y' won't change y' mind.

Horace. No. If I say I'll do a thing I'll do it.

amanda. And I may tell S'leste and the others.

Horace. Tell the 'ole world if y' like. Tell all Soho.

amanda (dancing and clapping her hands and singing). Oh,
it'll be joyful, joyful, joyful, joyful! I'll wear me blue
dress that buttons up the back, and I've got a 'at as I
'ardly worn yet. Won't the other girls stare! Not one
of 'em's got a fella like you. Rose's Jim — why 'e's not

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 157

much bigger than me. And S'leste's Alhit — 'e's only a
dustman. And as for Mr. Galloway — if 'e's sober be nine
o'clock in the mornin' Clem'll 'ave something to be thank-
ful for. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. Sat'dy, Sundy, Mondy. A 'ole
day to look forward in. There won't be a 'appier lady
anywhere Monday than what I shall be. You'll be 'ere be
nine. {Coming back to him) That's when the others go.

Horace. D' they start from 'ere?

amanda. Yes.

Horace (shifting his feet). Nine o'clock, that's all right, but
I think it'd be better to meet by the Dispens'ry, see — in
Paul street.

amanda (her face falling a little). Paul street — right down
there?

Horace. What's the matter with Paul street? Everyone
knows the Dispens'ry. It's a good place to meet,
ain't it?

amanda. I should 'a' liked you to come 'ere.

Horace. What's the difference?

amanda (reluctantly). I should 'a' liked 'em all to see me
goin' off with y'. They won't more than 'alf believe else.

horace. Paul street's much more convenient.

amanda. There won't be the crowd there is 'ere.

horace. No. That's it. We don't want no crowds, do
we? It'll be much better to go quietly from Paul street,
won't it? You be there at nine and I'll come along and
pick y' up. Then we shan't 'ave no waitin' about.
(Amanda looks at him slowly) You could be at the corner,
couldn't you, where that little court is, and come out when
I whistled.

amanda (still looking at him). Yes. I needn't show me-
self till you come.

Horace. That's right. (A little pause) And er — I was
thinkin' there's such 'undreds of people goes to 'Amstead.
We don't want to go there, do we? What'd y' say to the
forest?

amanda. Eppin'?

158 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

Horace. Yes. I know a nice quiet little bit of it where we

could go.
amanda (meekly). I don't mind, Mr. 'Orris.

[She walks away from him.
Horace. All right then. Monday, nine o'clock. Paul

street. Blest if I wasn't goin' without me shirt after all.

Ta-ta.

[Is about to go.
amanda (calling him back just as he is at the door). Mr. 'Orris.
Horace. Yes.

amanda. I — I can't go after all.
Horace (coming back). Can't go!

AMANDA. No.

Horace. What d' y' mean, can't go?

amanda. What I say. I — (recovering herself with an effort) —
I been pretendin'. Just to see what you'd do.

Horace. Pretendin' !

amanda. Yes. (Nervous and excited, but gaining confidence
as she proceeds) You see I shouldn't be allowed to go out
with strangers. My people wouldn't let me. I've been
brought up different. I'm afraid you'll be very angry, but
none of that about me bein' a orphin or born in the Union
is true. I'm the child of poor but respectable parents,
and I've bin very strictly brought up, and so, though I'm
very much obliged to you, Mr. Greensmith, I mustn't
accept your kind invitation.

Horace. Strike me pink!

amanda. You don't mind me 'avin' a bit of a lark with y\
do y'? It was so dull 'ere while the others was out. I
couldn't 'elp it. Ha, ha, ha. If you was to seen y'r own
face! You got a soft 'eart, that I will say. Ha, ha, ha.

Horace. Made a fool of me, 'ave y'. All right my girl.
Wait till I bring y' more washin' to do.

amanda. There, don't be angry.

Horace. Angry. 'Oo's angry? It's enough to make any-
one angry. Why

amanda. Garn. You know very well as it's a relief.

'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 159

Horace. Relief?

amanda (half hysterical). Not to 'ave to take me out — a
little 'op-o'-me-thumb like me. Ain't it now? And 'ave
everybody laughin' at y\ and askin' y' what it was, and
where y'd picked it up, and why they 'adn't drowned it
when it was born. Ho, ho. It'd be a poor world, eh, if
we didn't get a bit o' fun out of it some'ow, and some of
us was meant to supply all the fun for the others, it's my
opinion. Lord, when you thought I was cryin' I thought
I should 'a' died. Laugh! Whenever I think of it I shall
most split meself. Y' don't mind, old man, do y'?

Horace. I've a good mind to wring y' neck for y'.

amanda. No, don't do that. May I keep the pin?

Horace. Keep what y' like.

amanda. I will then. Now say y' ain't angry before y' go.

Horace. I'll be blowed if I do.

amanda. Jes' to show there's no ill feelin'.

HORACE. Git out.

amanda. Say it.

[She stands looking up at him tremulously.

Horace. 'Ere. (Stares at her hard, then takes her hands and
pulls her round to the light) Why! What'r-ye playin' at?
Tell the truth and shame the devil. Twig? I was a fool
to say as I'd take y\ We wasn't made for each other —
what d'ye call yerself, 'op-o'-me-thumb? but you're a game
little 'un, and 'Orris Greensmith's goin' to sling 'is bloomin'
'ook. See! Now gi' us that kiss I asked y' for.
[Kisses her quickly and in a shame-faced manner, but very
kindly, then whips up hat and shirt and goes out quietly.
She stands for a moment or two swaying. When she looks
up he is gone.

amanda. 'E kissed me! (Wonderingly) 'E kissed me.
O-oh. (She looks round and begins mechanically to put the
room tidy. Presently she bethinks her of the pin. She takes
it out of the bosom of her dress where she has stuck it) 'E was
ashamed of me, too. I s'pose I ought to spurn it. I
ought really to 'a' thrown it at 'is false feet and said: "Take

160 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB

back the jew'ls with which you 'ave loaded me, they are
poisonin' me," but (shaking her head and nibbing the stones
on her sleeve to make them shine) I can't. Oh, Mr. 'Orris,
you've broken my 'eart and stuck a pin in it. But you
did kiss me. You can't take back y' kiss. I shan't wait
to hear their talk. Me pretendin's over and done with.
(She pidls off her crape bow and holds it to her lips) There's
nobody — nobody now for me to pretend. Oh, Mr. 'Orris — ■
Mr. 'Orris.

[She crouches in a shabby little heap in the middle of the empty
room as the

CURTAIN FALLS

THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE
CREATURE

COSMO GORDON-LENNOX

Cosmo Gordon-Lennox was born in 1869. For some
years, between 1894 and 1906, he enjoyed wide experience as
an actor under the name Cosmo Stuart. His most important
roles were in Wilde's "An Ideal Husband", Anthony Hope's
"The Adventure of Lady Ursula", and Henry Arthur Jones'
"The Princess' Nose." He retired from the stage in 1906,
devoting a large part of his time to the writing of plays, many
of which were written in collaboration.

The plays of Mr. Gordon-Lennox are preeminently stage
plays, written by an actor for actors. They are soundly con-
structed, conventionally effective, — little more. "The Im-
pertinence of the Creature" is one of those "circumstance
pieces" that are intended solely to amuse. The circumstance
for which it was prepared was a Royal performance; it was
first performed at Marlborough House in presence of "T.M.
the King and Queen, T.M. the King and Queen of Denmark,
T.R.H. the Prince and Princess of Wales," in 1907.

PLAYS

Plays marked with * are in one act only.
Becky Sharp (1901) The Marriage of Kitty

(In collaboration with (1903)

R. S. Hichens) The Freedom of Suzanne

The Little French Milliner (1904)

(1902)

162 THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE

The Indecision of Mr. Kings-
bury (1905)

Miquette (1907)

The Thief (1907)

(From the French)
*The Impertinence of the
Creature (1907)

Her Sister (1907)

(In collaboration with
Clyde Fitch)

Angela (1907)

Helena's Path (1910)

(In collaboration with
Anthony Hope)

Primrose (1912)
(From the French)

The New Secretary (1913)

Frisco Sal (1913)

(In collaboration with
Dion Clayton Calthorp)
*The Van Dyck (1914)
(From the French)

"The Marriage of Kitty" and "The Impertinence of the
Creature" are published by Samuel French, New York.

THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE

A DUOLOGUE

By COSMO GORDON-LENNOX

"The Impertinence of the Creature" was first produced
at London in 1907.

Characters

Lady Millicent, A widow
An Unknown Gentleman

Copyriqht, 1909, by Cosmo Gqbdon-Lbnnox.
Reprinted by permission of Samuel French.

THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE

Scene. A boudoir leading from a London ballroom.
Enter Lady Millicent. Her manner is flurried and annoyed;

she looks off as she hurries on.

lady millicent. The impertinence of the creature! Thank
heavens at last I've got rid of him! (She sits, fanning her-
self. Enter a gentleman, timidly and shyly; he advances
awkwardly toward the Lady; she sees him) Oh ! (She turns
her head away from him, he advances nearer to her. She
crosses and sits on the opposite side of the stage. A pause;
he follows her shyly; she rises and goes to exit; he crosses and
gets before her) Really, this is outrageous — and absurd.
How dare you persecute me in this way?

gentleman. I didn't mean

lady millicent. You didn't mean. Have you or have you
not been following me about the room ever since I came to
this horrid ball?

gentleman. Well, I

lady millicent. Don't deny it.

gentleman. I don't — I

lady millicent. And I don't know you, I'm sure I don't
know you. Do I?

GENTLEMAN. No — I

lady millicent (violently). Then how dare you? How dare
you? How dare you? (She breaks her fan) If you don't
answer me, I shall lose my temper in a minute.

gentleman. Well — er — er

lady millicent. For heaven's sake, don't stammer. It's
extremely fortunate for you that I don't see a man I know
here, whom I can ask to protect me from your insolence.
But I don't know a soul in the room. I never saw such

16G IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE

an extraordinary lot of people; wherever they come from,
I can't think. What an entertainment!

GENTLEMAN. It IS dull.

lady millicent. It's extremely bad manners to criticise
the hospitality that's offered to you. If you find it dull,
why don't you go home to bed?

GENTLEMAN. I Can't!

lady millicent. I suppose you mean that for an exagger-
ated compliment. How dare you annoy me in this way?

gentleman. I don't want to annoy you. I

lady millicent. In heaven's name, then, what do you
want?

gentleman. I — I wanted to ask you — er

lady millicent. If it's a subscription to a charity, I don't
usually take my purse with me to a ball.

gentleman. I don't want a subscription. I want — er — to
take you down to supper.

lady millicent. Rien que ga! Really! I suppose you'll
say next I look as if I was starving, and could only be saved
from inanition by lukewarm soup and bad champagne.

gentleman (with a smile). The champagne's all right.

lady millicent. If you mean you've been indulging in too
much of it, I shan't take that as an excuse. You ought to
be ashamed of yourself.

gentleman. Do you mean to say I'm drunk?

lady millicent. It wasn't I said so. You said so

gentleman. I — never !

lady millicent. Please — please don't contradict me.
I've been lenient with you up till now, but I will not be
insulted.

gentleman. I didn't mean to insult you. My name is

lady millicent. I don't want to know your name. It
doesn't interest me in the least. Now listen to me. It's
true I don't know a soul at this ball, I don't even know my
hostess. My sister Eleanor sent me an invitation. She
knows these people, and I can't think why she hasn't ar-
rived instead of leaving me to battle with these horrid

IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 167

creatures and their dreadful guests. Eleanor's so dread-
fully selfish.

gentleman. I'm so sorry that

lady millicent. Please don't insult my relations. My
sister's selfishness has nothing to do with you. But what
I was going to say was this, although I don't know my
hostess, I could easily have complained to her of your
conduct, but I'm too kindhearted. Be reasonable; if you
wanted to make my acquaintance — why didn't you get
someone to introduce you to me properly?

gentleman. I hardly know anyone here.

lady millicent. Well, I don't blame you for that. I never
saw such a gathering in my life.

gentleman. Ha! ha!!

lady millicent. Don't laugh in that idiotic way. The
fact of your knowing no one — (suddenly) Young man,
were you invited to this ball? Have you got an invitation?

GENTLEMAN. No, I

lady millicent. Of course I don't mean have you got one
in your pocket. But did you have one sent to you?

GENTLEMAN. No !

lady millicent. Good heavens, of all the brazen creatures !
You must leave the house at once.

GENTLEMAN. I Can't!

lady millicent. But supposing you're turned out. It will

be too dreadful. Think of the scandal!

gentleman. You needn't worry ! I

lady millicent. Don't flatter yourself I care what happens

to you. I don't in the least. But if there's a scandal, my

name will be mixed up in it. People will say you came here

to see me.
gentleman. I did want to see you awfully — but when I

tell you

lady millicent. I knew it. It's really too absurd. I've

never set eyes on you before to-night.
gentleman. I've seen you, though, often since I've been

in London. Whenever I've had the chance.

168 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE

lady millicent (a little mollified). Don't be so absurd.
You know that your desire to see me is no excuse. It's
not as if I were a beautiful woman.

gentleman. You're — ripping.

lady millicent (half pleased). Really!

gentleman. Your dress is — ripping, and that thing in your
hair — you look — er — ripping.

iady millicent. You don't seem to have much command
of the English language. This is rather a nice gown.
[Smiling.

gentleman. You look so nice when you smile. So good-
tempered and — and

lady millicent (chaffing). Ripping?

gentleman. Yes, ripping.

LADY MILLICENT. I thought SO.

gentleman. You're awfully clever, too, I expect.

lady millicent. I expect you're awfully silly.

gentleman. Perhaps I am. But I like clever people. I
think they're awfully — awfully

lady millicent. Ripping.

gentleman. No — jolly. (He laughs, she laughs at him)
There, you're not angry any more now. Let me tell you
what I was going to say when I asked you to come down
to supper with me. The fact is, I

lady millicent. Oh, really, you are the most persistently
annoying person! I can't leave the house myself, because
I've promised my sister to go down to supper with some-
one.

gentleman. You can't go down with anyone but me, be-
cause I am

lady millicent. Please, please, I've told you I don't want
to get you into trouble because you seem to be a gentle-
man, and I'm sorry for you; you seem to be rather nice —
I mean a silly sort of person, and I daresay you've no
friends to advise you and take you in hand.

gentleman. I wish you'd take me in hand.

lady millicent. Well, if you'll only go away now, you shall

IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 1G0

find someone to introduce you to me another day, and I'll
forget your conduct to-night. Please go. I ask you to.
I must stay to supper. It's really unfair of you. Please
go quietly — you're making me talk like a policeman.

gentleman. I won't go unless you tell me who you want
to go down to supper with.

lady millicent. I decline

[Rising.

gentleman {very entreatingly) . Oh, please, do. I like hear-
ing you talk. You were beginning to be so nice just now.
Please tell me. Don't be unkind.

LADY MILLICENT. Well, I

gentleman. Please.

lady millicent. I'm sure I don't know why I consent.

Well, will you go away after I've told you?
gentleman. I will, as soon as possible.
lady millicent. Well, then, as you're not invited, perhaps

you don't know that our hostess is receiving the guests of

her brother, who is really giving this dreadful ball. Poor

man!
gentleman. Ha, ha!
lady millicent. What?

GENTLEMAN. I COUghed.

lady millicent. Her brother is Herbert Barwell, the great
explorer — who only returned to London the other day.
I've been dying to meet him.

gentleman (pleased). Have you?

lady millicent. Dying to meet him.

GENTLEMAN . Why ?

lady millicent. He's such a splendid fellow. I've read all

the story of what he's done. He's a hero.
gentleman (deprecatingly) . Oh, a hero !
lady millicent. Yes, a hero, and I adore brave men.

Think of the privations he endured.
gentleman. Oh, they weren't so bad.
lady millicent. Not so bad! Without water — in that

awful climate, with his men dying round him like flies.

170 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE

He carried his servant on his back for three days and three
nights, and saved his life. He's an honor to his country.

gentleman. Oh, you make too much of it.

lady millicent (rising). Do I? I'm sorry to hear you say
you think so. I'm sorry for any man who can think so.
But it's of no importance what you think. I am to be in-
troduced to Mr. Barwell, and he is to take me down to
supper. Now I have kept my promise — keep yours — go.
(He sits) I've had enough of this. I shall go to our
hostess — she looks a vulgar, fat old woman, but she won't
refuse me. I shall ask her to tell her brother to turn you
out of the house.

gentleman. You can't do that.

LADY MILLICENT. Can't I?

gentleman. No !

LADY MILLICENT. Why not?

gentleman. Because I've to take you down to supper. I'm
him.

lady millicent. You're talking neither grammar nor sense.

gentleman. I am the man who is giving this dreadful ball;
you're quite right, it is rather dreadful — my sister — you're
right again, she is rather vulgar and very fat — told me to
find you and introduce myself, and take you down to
supper.

LADY MILLICENT. What?

gentleman. I am Herbert Barwell.

lady millicent. Why on earth didn't you say so before?

gentleman. Well

lady millicent. Oh, can you ever forgive me for the dread-
ful things I've been saying?

gentleman. You said some nice things about me. May I
say some nice things to you — some very nice things indeed?

lady millicent. Don't you think it's time you took me
down to have some

gentleman. Of the bad champagne?

lady millicent. I expect it's ripping.
[She takes his arm, and they go off laughing.

curtain.

THE STEPMOTHER

ARNOLD BENNETT

Arnold Bennett was born in the Shelton district, in
1867, not far from the "Five Towns" which he later cele-
brated in his novels. Although he received his early edu-
cation at Newcastle-under-Lyme, near to his birthplace, he
matriculated at London University about 1885 and studied
law in his father's office. In 1889 he left the " Five Towns "
to establish himself definitely at London. It is probable
that he received his first encouragement to write as a result
of his work as London correspondent of a newspaper in his
home district. He also won a prize for a contribution to a
London paper, and in the early nineties he had seriously
entered the field of literature as a contributor to the "Yellow
Book." From 1895 on, Bennett turned "free-lance journal-
ist, contributing all manner of articles to all manner of maga-
zines. He attained very soon a position of some security
and responsibility, as sub-editor and subsequently as
editor of the woman's journal, Woman. ..." He also
"acted, during this period, as a fluent and omniscient
reviewer, a dramatic critic, a playwright and a publisher's

reader."

The years of apprenticeship were almost over. "Already
he had decided to be a successful author, and, as he viewed
it, the keeping of a journal was a most valuable part of the
apprenticeship to that career." A passage from this journal
(1899) reveals not only the extent of work accomplished, but
throws light on the young author's perseverance and his
pride in work achieved. "This year I have written 335,340

172 THE STEPMOTHER

words, grand total 224 articles and stories, and four install-
ments of a serial called 'The Gates of Wrath' have actually
been published; also my book of plays, 'Polite Farces.'
My work included six or eight short stories not yet published,
also the greater part of a 55,000 word serial . . . and the
whole draft, 80,000 words, of my Staffordshire novel, 'Anna
Tell wright.' "

Arnold Bennett's most characteristic work is found in his
novels, not in his plays. "The Stepmother", one of the
earliest plays, is a slight trifle, better adapted to the stage,
however, than some of his later efforts. In a Note prefacing
the volume "Polite Farces ", he says:

'The three farces comprising the present book have been
written for drawing-room performance. Dumas pere, the
father of modern drama, once said that all he needed was
'four trestles, four boards, two actors, and a passion.' For
myself I have dispensed with the trestles, the boards, and
the passion, since none of these things is suitable for a
drawing-room."

PLAYS

*The Stepmother (1899) Milestones (1912)
*A Good Woman (1899) (In collaboration with

*A Question of Sex (1899) Edward Knoblauch)

Cupid and Commonsense The Title (1918)

(1908) Judith (1919)

What the Public Wants Sacred and Profane Love

(1909) (1920)

The Honeymoon (1911) Body and Soul (1920)

The Great Adventure (1911)

All of Bennett's plays, with the exception of the "Polite
farces" ("The Stepmother", "A Good Woman", and "A
Question of Sex"), are published separately by George H.
Doran Company, New York. "Polite Farces", as a single
volume, by the same publisher.

THE STEPMOTHER 173

References: F. J. Harvey Darton, "Arnold Bennett",
Henry Holt and Company, New York; F. T. Cooper, "Some
English Story Tellers", Holt; H. T. and W. Follett, "Some
Modern Novelists", Holt; R. A. Scott-James, "Personality
in Literature", Martin Seeker, London.

Magazines: Bookman, vol. 34, p. 325, New York; Living
Age, Series 8, vol. 4, p. 771, Boston.

THE STEPMOTHER

FARCE IN ONE ACT
By ARNOLD BENNETT

'The Stepmother" has not been produced professionally.

Characters

Cora Prout, a Popular Novelist and a Widow, 30

Adrian Prout, her Stepson, 20

Thomas Gardner, a Doctor, 35

Christine Feversham, Mrs. Prout's Secretary, 20

Reprinted from "Polite Farces," by permission of the publisher, George H. Doran

Company.

THE STEPMOTHER

Scene. Mrs. Front's study: luxuriously furnished; large
table in centre, upon which are a new novel, press-cuttings, and
the usual apparatus of literary compositions. Christine is
seated at the large table, ready for work, and awaiting the ad-
vent of Mrs. Prout. To pass the time she picks up the novel,
the leaves of which are not cut, and glances at a page here and
there. Enter Mrs. Prout, hurried and preoccupied; the famous
novelist is attired in a plain morning gown, which in the per-
fection of its cut displays the beauty of her figure. She nods
absently to Christine, and sits down in an armchair away from
the table.
Christine. Good morning, Mrs. Prout. I'm afraid you are

still sleeping badly.
MRS. prout. Do I look it, girl?

Christine. You don't specially look it, Mrs. Prout. But
I observe. You are my third novelist, and they have all
taught me to observe. Before I took up novelists I was
with a Member of Parliament, and he never observed any-
thing except five-line whips.
mrs. prout. Really! Five-line whips! Oblige me by put-
ting that down in Notebook No. 2. There will be an
M.P. in that wretched thirty-thousand-word thing I've
promised for the Christmas number of the New York Sur-
priser and it might be useful. I might even make an
epigram out of it.
Christine. Yes, Mrs. Prout. (Writes.)
mrs. prout. And what are your observations about me?
Christine (while writing). Well, this is twice in three weeks

that you've been here five minutes late in the morning.
mrs. prout. Is that all? You don't think my stuff's falling
off?

178 THE STEPMOTHER

Christine. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout! I know it's not falling off.
I was just going to tell you. The butler's been in, and
wished me to inform you that he begged to give notice.
(Looking up) It seems that last night you ordered him to
cut the leaves of our new novel. (Patting book maternally)
He said he just looked into it, and he thinks it's disgraceful
to ask a respectable butler to cut the leaves of such a book.
So he begs to give warning. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout, your
stuff isn't falling off.

mrs. prout (grimly). What did you say to him, girl?

Christine. First I looked at him, and then I said, " Brown,
you will probably be able to get a place on the reviewing
staff of The Methodist Recorder."

MRS. prout. Christine, one day, I really believe, you will
come to employ a secretary of your own.

Christine. I hope so, Mrs. Prout. But I intend to keep
off the morbid introspection line. You do that so awfully
well. I think I shall go in for smart dialogue, with mar-
quises and country houses, and a touch of old-fashioned
human nature at the bottom. It appears to me that's
what's coming along very shortly. . . . Shall we begin,
Mrs. Prout?

mrs. prout (disinclined). Yes, I suppose so. (Clearing her
throat) By the way, anything special in the press-cuttings?

Christine. Nothing very special. (Fingering the pile of press-
cuttings) The Morning Call says, "genius in every line."

mrs. prout (blase). Hum!

Christine. The Daily Reporter: "Cora Prout may be tal-
ented — we should hesitate to deny it — but she is one of
several of our leading novelists who should send themselves
to a Board School in order to learn grammar."

MRS. prout. Grammar again ! They must keep a grammar
in the office! Personally I think its frightfully bad form
to talk about grammar to a lady. But they never had any
taste at the Reporter. Don't read me any more. Let us
commence work.

Christine. Which will you do, Mrs. Prout? (Considting

THE STEPMOTHER 179

a diary of engagements) There's the short story for the
Illustrated Monthly, six thousand, promised for next Sat-
urday. There's the article on "Women's Diversions" for
the British Review — they wrote for that yesterday. There's
the serial that begins in the Sunday Daily Sentinel in Sep-
tember — you've only done half the first instalment of that.
And of course there's Heart Ache.

mrs. prout. I think I'll go on with Heart Ache. I feel it
coming. I'll do the short story for the Illustrated to-
morrow. Where had I got to?

Christine (choosing the correct notebook, reads). "The in-
animate form of the patient lay like marble on the marble
slab of the operating-table. 'The sponge, Nurse,' said
the doctor, 'where is it?' That's where you'd got to.

mrs. prout. Yes. I remember. New line. "Isabel gazed
at him imperturbably." New line. Quote-marks. ' 'I
fear, Doctor,' she remarked, 'that in a moment of forget -
fulness you have sewn it up in our poor patient.' " New
line. Quote-marks. ' 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I
have.' ' Rather good, that, Christine, eh?
[Christine writes in shorthand.

Christine. Oh, Mrs. Prout, I think it's beautiful. So
staccato and crisp. By the way, I forgot to tell you that
there's a leader in the Daily Snail on that frightful anony-
mous attack in the Forum against your medical accuracy.
(Looking at Mrs. Prout, who is silent, but shows signs of agi-
tation) You remember — "Medicine in Fiction." The
Snail backs up the Forum for all it's worth. . . . Mrs.
Prout, you are ill. I was sure you were. W T hat can I get
for you?

mrs. prout (weakly wiping her eyes). Nonsense, Christine.
I am a little unstrung, that is all. I want nothing.

Christine. Your imagination is too much for you.

mrs. prout (meekly). Perhaps so.

Christine (firmly). But it isn't all due to an abnormal
imagination. You've never been quite cheerful since you
turned Mr. Adrian out.

180 THE STEPMOTHER

MRS. prout. You forget yourself, Christine.

Christine. I forget nothing, Mrs. Prout, myself least
of all. Mr. Adrian is your dead husband's son, and
you turned him out of your house, and now you're
sorry.

MRS. prout. Christine, you know perfectly well that I —
er — requested him to go because he would insist on making
love to you, which interfered with our work. Besides, it
was not quite nice for a man to make love to the secretary
of his stepmother. I wonder you are indelicate enough to
refer to the matter. You should never have permitted his
advances.

Christine. I didn't permit them. I wasn't asked to. I
tolerated them. I hadn't been secretary to a lady-
novelist with a stepson before, and I wasn't quite sure
what was included in the duties. I always like to give
satisfaction.

mrs. prout. You do give satisfaction. Let that end the
discussion.

Christine (pouting; turning to her notebook; reads). " 'Damn!'
said the doctor, 'so I have.'" (Pause) 'Damn!' said the
doctor, ' so I have.
[Pause.

mrs. prout. Christine, did you find out who was the author
of that article on "Medicine in Fiction"?

Christine. Is that what's bothering you, Mrs. Prout? Of
course it was a nasty attack, but it is very unlike you to
trouble about critics.

mrs. prout. It has hurt me more than I can say. That was
why I asked you to make a few discreet inquiries.

Christine. I did ask at my club.

mrs. prout. And what did they think there?

Christine. They laughed at me, and said every one knew
you had written it yourself just to keep the silly season
alive, July being a sickly month for reputations.

mrs. prout. What did you say to that?

Christine. I should prefer not to repeat it.

THE STEPMOTHER 181

mrs. prout. Christine, I insist. Your modesty is becom-
ing a disease.

Christine. I said they were fools

mrs. prout. A little abrupt, perhaps, but effective.

Christine. Not to see that the grammar was different from
ours.

mrs. prout. Oh! that was what you said, was it?

Christine. It was, and it settled them.

mrs. prout (assuming a confidential air). Christine, I be-
lieve I know who wrote that article.

Christine. Who?

mrs. prout. Dr. Gardner.
[Bursts into tears.

Christine (soothing her). But he lives on the floor below,
in the very flat underneath this.

mrs. prout (choking back her sobs). Yes. It is too
dreadful.

Christine. But he comes here nearly every evening.

mrs. prout (sharply). Who told you that?

Christine. Now, Mrs. Prout, let me implore you to be
calm. The butler told me. I didn't ask him, and as I
cannot be expected to foretell what my employer's butler
will say before he opens his mouth, I am not to blame.
(Compresses her lips) Shall we continue?

mrs. prout. Christine, do you think it was Dr. Gardner?
I would give worlds to know.

Christine (coldly analytic). Do you mean that you would
give worlds to know that it was Dr. Gardner, or that it
wasn't Dr. Gardner? Or would give worlds merely to
know the author's name — no matter who he might be?

mrs. prout (sighing). You are dreadfully unsympathetic
this morning.

Christine. I am placid, nothing else. Please recollect that
when you engaged me you asked if you might rely on me
to be placid, as your previous secretary, when you dictated
the pathetic chapters, had wept so freely into her notebook
that she couldn't transcribe her stuff, besides permanently

182 THE STEPMOTHER

injuring her eyesight. Since you ask my opinion as to
Dr. Gardner being the author of this attack on you, I say
that he isn't. Apart from the facts that he lives on the
floor below, and that he is, so the butler says, a constant
visitor in the evenings, there is the additional fact — a fact
which I have several times observed for myself without
the assistance of the butler — that he likes you.

mrs. prout. You have noticed that. It is true. But the
question is: Does he like me sufficiently not to attack my
work in the public press? That is the point. The writer
of that cruel article begins by saying that he has no per-
sonal animus, and that he is actuated solely by an en-
thusiasm for the cause of medicine and the medical pro-
fession.

Christine. You mean to infer, Mrs. Prout, that the author
of the article might, as a man, like you, while as a doctor
he despised you?

mrs. prout (whimpering again). That is my suspicion.

Christine. But Dr. Gardner does more than like you. He
adores you.

mrs. prout. He adores my talent, my genius, my fame,
my wealth; but does he adore me? I am not an ordinary
woman, and it is no use pretending that I am. I must
think of these things.

Christine. Neither is Dr. Gardner an ordinary doctor.
His researches into toxicology

MRS. prout. His researches are nothing to me. I wish he
wasn't a doctor at all.

Christine. Even doctors have their place in the world,
Mrs. Prout.

mrs. prout. They should not meddle with fiction, poking
their noses

Christine. But if fiction meddles with them? . . . You
know fiction is really very meddlesome. It pokes its nose
with great industry.

mrs. prout (pulling herself together). Christine, you have
never understood me. Let us continue.

THE STEPMOTHER 183

Christine (with an offended air, turning once more to her note-
book). " 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I have.' "

mrs. prout (coughing). New line. "A smile flashed across

the lips of Isabel as she took up a glittering knife "

(Gives a great sob) Oh, Christine! I'm sure Dr. Gardner
wrote it.

Christine. Very well, madam. He wrote it. We have at
last settled something. (Mrs. Prout buries her face in her
hands. Christine looks up, and after an instant's pause
springs toward her) You poor dear! You are perfectly
hysterical this morning. You must go and lie down for a
little. A horizontal posture is what you need.

mrs. prout. Perhaps you are right. I will leave you for
an hour. (Totters to her feet) Take down this note for Dr.
Gardner. He may call this morning. In fact, I rather
think he will. "The answer to the question is 'No' " —
capital N.

Christine. Shall I sign it?

mrs. prout. Yes; sign it "C. P." And if he comes, give
it him yourself, and say that I can see no one. And,
Christine, would you mind (crying gently again) seeing the
b-b-butler, and try to reason him into a sensible attitude
towards my n-n-novels. In my present state of health I
couldn't stand any change. And he is so admirable at
table.

Christine. Shall I offer some compromise in our next
novel? I might inquire what is the irreducible minimum
of his demands.

mrs. prout (faintly). Anything, anything, if he will stay.

Christine (following Mrs. Prout to the door, and touching her
shoulder caressingly). Try to sleep.

[Exit Mrs. Prout. Christine whistles in a low tone as she
returns meditatively to her seat.

Christine (looking at notebook). "Isabel took up a glit-
tering knife," did she? "The answer to the question is
'No,' " with a capital N. "C. P." sounds like Carter
Paterson. Now, as I have nothing to do, I think I will

184 THE STEPMOTHER

devote the morning to an article on "Hysteria in Lady
Novelists." Um! Ah! "The answer to the question is
'No' " — capital N. What question? Can it be that the
lily-white hand of the author of Heart Ache has . . .
(knock) Come in.
[Enter Dr. Gardner.

Gardner. Oh, good morning, Miss Feversham.

Christine. Good morning, Dr. Gardner. You seem sur-
prised to see me here. Yet I am to be found in this chair
daily at this hour.

Gardner. Not at all, not at all. I assure you I fully ex-
pected to find both you and the chair. I also expected to
find Mrs. Prout.

Christine. Are you capable of interrupting our literary
labours? We do not receive callers so early, Dr. Gardner.
Which reminds me that I have several times remarked that
this study ought not to have a door opening into the
corridor.

Gardner. As for that, may I venture to offer the excuse
that I had an appointment with Mrs. Prout?

Christine. At what hour? She never makes appoint-
ments before noon.

Gardner. I believe she did say twelve o'clock.

Christine (looking at her watch). And it is now twenty-five
minutes to ten. Punctuality is a virtue. You may be
said to have raised it to the dignity of a fine art.

Gardner. I will wait. (Sits down) I trust that I do not
interrupt?

Christine. Yes, Doctor, I regret to say that you do. I
was about to commence the composition of an article.

GARDNER. Upon what?

Christine. Upon "Hysteria in Lady Novelists." It is my

specialty.
Gardner. Surely lady novelists are not hysterical?
Christine. The increase of hysteria among that class of

persons is one of the saddest features of the age.
Gardner. Dear me! (Enthusiastically) But I can tell you

THE STEPMOTHER 185

the name of one lady novelist who isn't hysterical- — and
that, perhaps, the greatest name of all — Mrs. Prout.

Christine. Of course not, of course not, Doctor. Neverthe-
less, Mrs. Prout is somewhat indisposed this morning.

Gardner. Cora — ill! What is it? Nothing serious?

Christine. Rest assured. The merest slight indisposition.
Just sufficient to delay us an hour or two with our work.
Nothing more. Nerves, you know. The imagination of
a great artist, Dr. Gardner, is often too active, too stress-
ful, for the frail physical organism.

Gardner. Ah! You regard Mrs. Prout as a great artist?

Christine. Doctor — even to ask such a question . . .!
Do not you?

Gardner. I? To me she is unique. I say, Miss Fever-
sham, were you ever in love?

Christine. In love? I have had preferences.

Gardner. Among men?

Christine. No; among boys. Recollect I am only twenty,
though singularly precocious in shrewdness and calm
judgment.

Gardner. Twenty? You amaze me, Miss Feversham. I
have often been struck by your common sense and knowl-
edge of the world. They would do credit to a woman of
fifty.

Christine. I am glad to notice that you do not stoop to
offer me vulgar compliments about my face.

Gardner. I am incapable of such conduct. I esteem your
mental qualities too highly. And so you have had your
preferences among boys?

Christine. Yes, I like to catch them from eighteen to
twenty. They are so sweet and fresh then, like new milk.
The employe of the Express Dairy Company who leaves me
my half-pint at my lodgings each morning is a perfectly
lovely dear. I adore him.

Gardner. He is one of your preferences, then?

Christine. A preference among milkmen, of whom, as I
change my lodgings frequently, I have known many.

186 THE STEPMOTHER

Then there is the postman — not a day more than eighteen,
I am sure, though that is contrary to the regulations of
St. Martin's-le-Grand. Dr. Gardner, you should see my
postman. When he brings them I can receive even re-
jected articles with equanimity.

Gardner. I should be charmed to see him. But tell me,
Miss Feversham, have you had no serious preferences?

Christine. You seem interested in this question of prefer-
ences.

GARDNER. I am.

Christine. Doctor, I will open my heart to you. It is
conceivable you may be of use to me. You are on friendly
terms with Adrian, and doubtless you know the history of
his exit from this house. {Gardner nods, with a smile)
Doctor, he and I aie passionately attached to each other.
Our ages are precisely alike. It is a beautiful idyll, or
rather it would be, if dear Mrs. Prout did not try to trans-
form it into a tragedy. She has not only turned the
darling boy out, but she has absolutely forbidden him the
house.

Gardner. Doubtless she had her reasons.

Christine. Oh, I'm sure she had. Only, you see, her
reasons aren't ours. Of course we could marry at once if
we chose. I could easily keep Adrian. I do not, how-
ever, wish to inconvenience dear Mrs. Prout. It is a
mistake to quarrel with the rich relations of one's future
husband. But I was thinking that perhaps you, Doctor,
might persuade dear Mrs. Prout that my marriage to
Adrian need not necessarily interfere with the performance
of my duties as her secretary.

Gardner. Anything that I can do, Miss Feversham, you
may rely on me doing.

Christine. You are a dear.

Gardner. But why should you imagine that I have any
influence with Mrs. Prout?

Christine. I do not imagine; I know. It is my unerring
insight over again, my faultless observation. Doctor, you

THE STEPMOTHER 187

did not begin to question me about love because you were
interested in my love affairs, but because you were in-
terested in your own, and couldn't keep off the subject.
I read you like a book. You love Mrs. Prout, my dear
Doctor. Therefore you have influence over her. No
woman is uninfluenced by the man who loves her.

Gardner {laughing between self-satisfaction and self -conscious-
ness). You have noticed that I admire Mrs. Prout? It
appears that nothing escapes you.

Christine. That is a trifle. The butler has noticed it.

Gardner. The butler!

Christine. The butler.

Gardner {with abandon). Let him. Let the whole world
notice. Miss Feversham, be it known that I love Mrs.
Prout with passionate adoration. Before the day is out
I shall either be her affianced bridegroom — or I shall be a
dead man.

Christine {leaning forward; in a low, tense voice). You pro-
posed to her last night?

GARDNER. I did.

Christine. And you were to come for the answer this
morning?

Gardner. Yes. Can you not guess that I am eager — ex-
cited? Can you not pardon me for thinking it is noon at
twenty -five minutes to ten? Ah, Miss Feversham, if
Adrian adores you with one-tenth of the fire with which I
adore Mrs. Prout

Christine. Stop, Doctor, I do not wish to be a burnt sac-
rifice. Now let me ask you a question. You have seen
that attack on Mrs. Prout, entitled "Medicine in
Fiction", in this month's Forum. Do you know the
author of it?

Gardner. I don't. Has it disturbed Mrs. Prout?

Christine. It has. Did she not mention it to you?

Gardner. Not a word. If I did know the author of it, if
I ever do know the author of it, I will tear him {fiercely)
limb from limb.

188 THE STEPMOTHER

Christine. I trust you will chloroform him first. It will be

horrid of you if you don't.
Gardner. I absolutely decline to chloroform him first.

CHRISTINE. YOU must.
GARDNER. I Won't.

Christine. Never mind. Perhaps you will be dead. Re-
member that you have promised to kill yourself to-day on
a certain contingency. Should you really do it? Should
you really put an end to your life if Mrs. Prout gave you
a refusal?

Gardner. I swear it. Existence would be valueless to
me.

Christine. By the way, Mrs. Prout told me that if you
called I was to say that she could see no one.

Gardner. See no one! But she promised . . .

Christine. However, she left a note.

Gardner {starting up). Give it me instantly. Why didn't
you give it me before?

Christine. I had no opportunity. Besides, I haven't
transcribed it yet. It was dictated.

Gardner. Dictated? Are you sure?

Christine (seriously). Oh, yes, she dictates everything.

Gardner. Well, well, read it to me, read it to me. Quick,
I say.

Christine (turning over leaves rapidly). Here it is. Are
you listening?

Gardner. Great Heaven!

Christine (reads from her shorthand note). "The answer to
your question is "

GARDNER. Go On.

Christine (drawing her breath first) . " Yes. — C. P." There !

I've saved your life for you.
Gardner. You have indeed, my dear girl. But I must see

her. I must see my beloved Cora.
Christine (taking his hand). Accept my advice, Doctor —

the advice of a simple, artless girl. Do not attempt to see

her to-day. There are seasons of emotion when a woman

THE STEPMOTHER 189

(stops) . . . Go downstairs and write to her, and then
give the letter to me.
[Pats him on the back.

Gardner. I will, by Jove. Miss Feversham, you're a good
sort. And as you've told me something, I'll tell you some-
thing. Adrian is going to storm the castle to-day.

Christine. Adrian !

[A knock. Enter Adrian.

Adrian. Since you command it, I enter.

Gardner. Let me pass, bold youth.
[Exit Dr. Gardner hurriedly.

Adrian (overcome by Gardner's haste). Why this avalanche?
Has something happened suddenly?

Christine. Several things have happened suddenly, Ad-
rian, and several more will probably happen when your
mamma discovers that you are defying her orders in this
audacious manner. Why are you here? (Kisses him)
You perfect duck!

Adrian (gravely). I am not here, Miss Feversham

Christine. " Miss Feversham " — and my kiss still warm on
his lips!

Adrian. I repeat, Miss Feversham, that I am not here.
This (pointing to himself) is not I. It is merely a rather
smart member of the staff of the Daily Snail, come to in-
terview Cora Prout, the celebrated novelist.

Christine. And I have kissed a Snail reporter. Ugh!

Adrian. Impetuosity has ruined many women.

Christine. It is a morning of calamities. (Assuming the
secretarial pose) Your card, please.

Adrian (handing card). With pleasure.

Christine (taking card by the extreme corner, perusing it with
disdain, and then dropping it on the floor). We never see
interviewers in the morning.

Adrian. Then I will call this afternoon.

Christine. You must write for an appointment.

Adrian. Oh! I'll take my chances, thanks.

Christine. We never give them: it is our rule. We have

190 THE STEPMOTHER

to be very particular. The fact is, we hate being inter-
viewed, and we only submit to the process out of a respect-
ful regard for the great and enlightened public. Any sort
of notoriety, any suggestion of self-advertisement, is dis-
tasteful to us. What do you wish to interview us about?
If it's the new novel, we are absolutely mum. Accept that
from me.

Adrian. It isn't the new novel. The Snail wishes to know
whether Mrs. Prout feels inclined to make any statement
in reply to that article, "Medicine in Fiction", in the
Forum. •

Christine. Oh, Adrian, do you know anything about that
article?

Adrian. Rather! I know all about it.

Christine. You treasure! You invaluable darling! I will
marry you to-morrow morning by special license

Adrian. Recollect, it is a Snail reporter whom you are ad-
dressing. Suppose I were to print that!

Christine. Just so. You are prudence itself, while I, for
the moment, happen to be a little — a little abnormal. I
saved a man's life this morning, and it is apt to upset one's
nerves. It is a dreadful thing to do — to save a man's life.
And the consequences will be simply frightful for me.
[Buries her face in her hands.

Adrian. Christine (taking her hands), what are you raving
about? You are not yourself.

Christine. I wish I wasn't. (Looking up with forced calm)
Adrian, there is a possibility of your being able to save me
from the results of my horrible act, if only you will tell
me the name of the author of that article in the Forum.

Adrian (tenderly). Christine, you little know what you ask.
But for you I will do anything. . . . Kiss me, my white

lily.

[She kisses him.
Christine (whispers). Tell me.

[He folds her in his arms. Enter Mrs. Prout, excitedly.
mrs. prout (as she enters). Christine, that appalling butler

THE STEPMOTHER 191

has actually left the house . . . (Observing group)
Heavens !

Christine (quietly disengaging herself). You seem a little
better, Mrs. Prout. A person to interview you from the
Daily Snail. [Pointing to Adrian.

mrs. prout. Adrian!

Adrian. Yes, mamma.

mrs. prout (opening her lips to speak and then closing them).
Sit down.

Adrian. Certainly, Mamma. [Sits.

mrs. prout. How dare you come here?

Adrian. I don't know how, Mamma.

[Picks up his card from the floor and hands it to her; then re-
sumes his seat.

mrs. prout (glancing at card). Pah!

Christine. That's just what I told the person, Mrs. Prout.
[Mrs. Prout burns her up with a glance.

mrs. prout. You have, then, abandoned your medical
studies, for which I had paid all the fees?

Adrian. Yes, Mamma. You see, I was obliged to earn
something at once. So I took to journalism. I am get-
ting on quite nicely. The editor of the Snail says that I
may review your next book.

mrs. prout. Unnatural stepson, to review in cold blood
the novel of your own stepmother! But this morning I
am getting used to misfortunes.

Adrian. It cuts me to the heart to hear you refer to any
action of mine as a misfortune for you . Perhaps you would
prefer that I should at once relieve you of my presence?

mrs. prout. Decidedly, yes — that is, if Christine thinks she
can do without the fifth act of that caress which I inter-
rupted.

Christine. The curtain was already falling, madam.

mrs. prout. Very well. (To Adrian) Good-day.

Adrian. As a stepson I retire. As the "special" of the
Daily Snail I must insist on remaining. A "special" of
the Daily Snail is incapable of being snubbed. He knows

192 THE STEPMOTHER

what he wants, and he gets it, or he ceases to be a " special "
of the Daily Snail.

mrs. prout. I esteem the press, and though I should prefer
an existence of absolute privacy, I never refuse its de-
mands. I sacrifice myself to my public, freely acknowl-
edging that a great artist has no exclusive right to the
details of his own daily life. A great artist belongs to the
world. What is it you want, Mr. Snail?

Adrian. I want to know whether you care to say anything
in reply to that article on "Medicine in Fiction" in the
Forum.

mrs. prout (sinking back in despair). That article again!
(Sitting up) Tell me — do you know the author?

ADRIAN. I do.

mrs. prout. His name!

Adrian. He is a friend of mine.

mrs. prout. His name!

Adrian. I am informed that in writing it he was actuated
by the highest motives. His desire was not only to make
a little money, but to revenge himself against a person
who had deeply injured him. He didn't know much about
medicine, being only a student, and probably the larger
part of his arguments could not be sustained, but he knew
enough to make a show, and he made it.

mrs. prout. His name! I insist.

Adrian. Adrian Spout or Prout — I have a poor memory. . . .

mrs. prout. Is it possible?

Christine. Monster!

Adrian. Need I defend myself, Mamma? Consider what
you had done to me. You had devastated my young
heart, which was just unfolding to its first passion. You
had blighted the springtime of the exquisite creature
(looking at Christine, who is moved by the feeling in his
tones) — the exquisite creature who was dearer to me than
all the world. In place of the luxury of my late father's
house you offered me — the street. . . .

Christine. Yes . . . and Gower Street.

THE STEPMOTHER 193

Adrian. You, who should have gently fostered and en-
couraged the frail buds of my energy and intelligence —
you cast me forth . . .

Christine. Cast them forth.

Adrian. Cast them forth, untimely plucked, to wither, and
perhaps die, in the deserts of a great city. And for what?
For what?

Christine. Merely lest she should be deprived of my poor
services. Ah! Mrs. Prout, can you wonder that Mr.
Adrian should actively resent such conduct — you with
your marvellous knowledge of human nature?

mrs. prout. Adrian, did you really write it?

Adrian. Why, of course. You seem rather pleased than
otherwise, Mamma.

mrs. prout {after cogitating). Ah! You didn't write it,
really. You are just boasting. It is a plot, a plot!

Adrian. I can prove that I wrote it, since you impugn my
veracity.

mrs. prout. How can you prove it?

Adrian. By producing the cheque which I received from
the Forum this very morning.

mrs. prout. Produce it, and I will forgive all.

Adrian {with a sign to Christine that he entirely fails to com-
prehend the situation). I fly. It is in my humble attic,
round the corner. Back in two minutes.
[Exit Adrian.

mrs. prout. Christine, did he really write it?

Christine. Can you doubt his word? Was it for lying
that you ejected the poor youth from this residence?

mrs. prout. Ah! If he did! {Smiles) Of course Dr. Gard-
ner has not called?

Christine. Yes, he was in about twenty minutes ago.

mrs. prout {agonised). Did you give him my note?

CHRISTINE. No.

mrs. prout. Thank Heaven!

Christine. I had not copied it out, so I read it to him.

mrs. prout. You read it to him?

194 THE STEPMOTHER

Christine. Yes; that seemed the obvious thing to do.

mrs. prout (in black despair). All is over.
[Sinks back. Enter Dr. Gardner hastily.

Gardner (excited). I was looking out of the window of my
flat when I saw Adrian tear along the street. I said to
myself, "A man, even a reporter, only runs like that when
a doctor is required, and urgently required. Some one is
ill, perhaps my darling Cora." So I flew upstairs.

mrs. prout (with a shriek). Dr. Gardner!

Gardner. You are indeed ill, my beloved. (Approaching
her) What is the matter?

mrs. prout (waving him off). It is nothing, Doctor. Could
you get me some salts? I have mislaid mine [Sighs.

Gardner. Salts! In an instant.
[Exit Dr. Gardner.

mrs. prout. Christine, you said you read my note to Dr.
Gardner.

Christine. Yes, Mrs. Prout.

mrs. prout. His behaviour is singular in the extreme. He
seems positively overjoyed, while the freedom of his en-
dearing epithets What were the precise terms I

used? Read me the note.

Christine. Yes, Mrs. Prout. (Reads demurely) "The
answer to your question is 'Yes,' " — with a capital N.

mrs. prout. "Yes" with a capital N?

Christine (calmly). I mean with a capital F.

[Christine and Mrs. Prout look steadily at each other. Then
they both smile. Enter Dr. Gardner.

Gardner (handing the salts). You are sure you are not ill?

mrs. prout (smiling at him radiantly). I am convinced of
if Christine, will you kindly reach me down the diction-
ary from that shelf?

[While Christine's back is turned Dr. Gardner gives, and
Mrs. Prout returns, a passionate kiss.

Christine (handing dictionary). Here it is, Mrs. Prout.

mrs. prout (after considting it). I thought I could not be
mistaken. Christine, you have rendered me a service

THE STEPMOTHER 195

(regarding her affectionately) — a service for which I shall
not forget to express my gratitude; but I am obliged to
dismiss you instantly from my service.

Christine. Dismiss me, madam?

Gardner. Cora, can you be so cruel?

mrs. prout. Alas, yes! She has sinned the secretarial sin
which is beyond forgiveness. She has misspelt.

Gardner. Impossible!

mrs. prout. It is too true.

Gardner. Tell me the sad details.

mrs. prout. She has been guilty of spelling "No" with
a "Y."

Gardner. Dear me! And a word of one syllable, too!
Miss Feversham, I should not have thought it of you.
[Enter Adrian.

Adrian (as he hands a cheque for Mrs. Prout' 's inspection).
Here again, Doctor?

Gardner. Yes, and to stay.

mrs. prout. Adrian, the Doctor and I are engaged to be
married. And talking of marriage, you observe that girl
there in the corner. Take her and marry her at the
earliest convenient moment. She is no longer my
secretary.

Adrian. What! You consent?

mrs. prout. I consent.

Adrian. And you pardon my article?

mrs. prout. No, my dear Adrian, I ignore it. Here, take
your ill-gotten gains. (Returning cheque) They will bring
you no good. And since they will bring you no good, I
have decided to allow you the sum of five hundred pounds
a year. You must have something.

Adrian. Stepmother!

Christine (advancing to take Mrs. Prout* s hand). Step-
mother-in-law !

Gardner. Cora, you are an angel.

mrs. prout. Merely an artist, my dear Tom, merely an
artist. I have the dramatic sense — that is all.

196 THE STEPMOTHER

Adrian. Your sense is more than dramatic, it is common;

it is even horse. What about the Snail " special ",

mummy?
mrs. prout. My attitude is one of strict silence.
Adrian. But I must go away with something.
mrs. prout. Strict silence. The attack is beneath my

notice.
Adrian. But what can I say?
Christine. Say that Mrs. Prout's late secretary, Miss

Feversham, having retired from her post, has already

entered upon a career of original literary composition.

That will be a nice newsy item, won't it?
Adrian {taking out notebook). Rather! What is she at work

on?

Christine. Oh, welL I scarcely

Gardner. I know — " Hysteria in Lady Novelists."
MRS. prout. What?

Gardner (to Christine). Didn't you tell me so?
Christine. Of course I didn't, Doctor. What a shocking

memory you have! It is worse than my spelling.
Gardner. Then what did you say?
Christine. I said, "Generosity in Lady Novelists."

curtain

ROCOCO

GRANVILLE BARKER

H. Granville Barker was born at London in 1877. He
appears to have begun his stage career at an early age, when
he became an actor in a provincial company. His first
London appearance was in 1892. He subsequently acted
with Lewis Waller, Ben Greet, and Mrs. Patrick Campbell,
and participated in the productions of the Elizabethan
Stage Society. Becoming identified later with the Stage
Society, he produced and acted in a number of Bernard
Shaw's early plays. In 1904 he undertook, together with
J. E. Vedrenne, the management of the Court Theater,
where he successfully experimented in a repertory scheme,
producing many new plays by Shaw, St. John Hankin,
Barrie and Galsworthy. He continued his managerial ac-
tivities at the Duke of York's Theater, the Savoy — where his
Shakespearian revivals were produced — the St. James, and
the Kingsway. During the past few years Mr. Barker has
adapted plays, written about the theater, and lectured, both
in England and the United States.

Granville Barker's plays are, in the best sense of the word,
experiments in form. They are a good deal more than tech-
nical feats, to be sure, but one feels that they are primarily
quests after a newer and more flexible medium than that
which the workers in the traditional form habitually use.
"The Madras House ", for example, judged by the standards
of Pinero, is hardly a play at all; its artistic unity lies rather
in the theme than in the actual plot. In "Waste", the
theme again — more concrete than in "The Madras House"
— dominates the form. "The Voysey Inheritance ", a study
of upper middle-class English life, comes nearer to the tradi-

198 ROCOCO

tional dramatic form. It is Mr. Barker's most successful
play.

"Rococo " is the best of the short plays; it reveals the
dramatist, as in the more ambitious works, as an artist
in quest of the proper means of expression, the most effective
medium for the dramatic presentation of human character
and ideas.

PLAYS

The Weather Hen (1899) Waste (1909)

(In collaboration with The Madras House (1910)

Herbert Thomas) *Rococo (1912)

The Marrying of Ann Leete The Harlequinade (1913)
(1901) (In collaboration with

Prunella (1904) Dion Clayton Calthrop)

(In collaboration with Vote by Ballot (1914)

Laurence Housman) Farewell to the Theatre

The Voysey Inheritance (1916)

(1905)

"The Marrying of Ann Leete ", "Prunella ", "The Voysey
Inheritance", "Waste", "The Madras House", and "The
Harlequinade" are published separately by Little, Brown
and Company, Boston; "The Marrying of Ann Leete",
"The Voysey Inheritance", and "Waste", also in a single
volume, by Little, Brown and Company; "Rococo", "Vote
by Ballot", and "Farewell to the Theater" in a single
volume only, as "Three Short Plays", by Little, Brown and
Company.

References: Granville Barker, Prefaces to his own edi-
tions of "A Midsummer Night's Dream ", "Twelfth Night ",
and "A Winter's Tale", Sidgwick and Jackson, London;
and to "Three Plays of Maeterlinck", Gowans and Gray,
London; William Archer and Granville Barker, "Schemes
and Estimates for a National Theater ", Duffield and Com-
pany, New York.

ROCOCO 199

Magazines: Bookman, July, 1914, London; The Forum,
vol. xliv, p. 159, New York; Bookman, vol. xxxv, p. 195,
New York; Fortnightly Review, vol. xcv, p. 60, and vol. c,
p. 100, London; Nation, vol. xci, p. 19, and vol. xciv, p. 445,
New York; Harper's Weekly, vol. lvi, p. 6, New York; North
American Review, vol. cxcv, p. 5720, New York; The Drama,
No. 2, Chicago.

ROCOCO

A FARCE
By GRANVILLE BARKER

'Rococo" was first produced at London in 1911.

Characters
The Vicar
Reginald, his nephew
Mrs. Reginald

Mrs. Underwood, the Vicar's wife
Miss Underwood, the Vicar's sister
Mortimer Uglow, Reginald' s father

Reprinted from "Three Short Plays", published by Little, Brown and Company,
by permission of the Paget Dramatic Agency. "Kococo" is fully protected by copy-
right and must not be performed either by amateurs or professionals without written
pel mission. For such permission, and for the "acting version," with full stage directions,
apply to the Paget Dramatic Agency, 500 Fifth Ave, New York City.

ROCOCO

Do you know how ugly the drawing-room of an English vicar-
age can be? Yes, I am aware of all that there should be about
it; the old-world grace and charm of Jane-Austenism. One
should sit upon Chippendale and glimpse the grey Norman
church-tower through the casement. But what of the pious foun-
dations of a more industrial age, churches built in mid-nineteenth
century and rather scamped in the building, dedicated to the
Glory of God and the soul's health of some sweating and sweated
urban district? The Bishop would have a vicarage added,
grumbled the church-donor. Well, then, consider his comfort a
little, but to the glory of the Vicar nothing need be done. And
nothing was. The architect (this an added labour of but little
love to him) would give an ecclesiastical touch to the front porch,
a pointed top to the front door, add some stained glass to the
staircase window. But a mean house, a stuffy house, and the
Vicar must indeed have fresh air in his soul if mean and stuffy
doctrine was not to be generated there.

The drawing-room would be the best room, and not a bad room
in its way, if it weren't that its proportions were vile, as though
it felt it wanted to be larger than it was, and if the window and
the fireplace and the door didn't seem to be quarrelling as to which
should be the most conspicuous. The fireplace wins.

This particidar one in this particular drawing-room is of
yellow wood, stained and grained. It reaches not quite to the
ceiling. It has a West Front air, if looking-glass may stand
for windows; it is fretted, moreover, here and there, with little
trefoil holes. It bears a full assaidt of the Vicar's wife's ideas
of how to make the place "look nice." There is the clock, of
course, which won't keep time; there are the vases which won't
hold water; framed photographs, as many as can be crowded on
the shelves; in every other crevice knickknacks. Then, if you

204 ROCOCO

stand, as the Vicar often stands, at this point of vantage you are
conscious of the wall-paper of amber and blue with a frieze
above it measuring off yard by yard a sort of desert scene, a
mountain, a lake, three palm trees, two camels; and again;
and again; until by the corner a camel and a palm tree are cut
out. On the walls there are pictures, of course. Two of them
convey to you in a vague and water-coloury sort of way that an
English countryside is pretty. There is "Christ among the
Doctors", with a presentation brass plate on its frame; there is
"Simply to Thy Cross I Cling." And there is an illuminated
testimonial to the Vicar, a mark of affection and esteem from the
flock he ministered to as senior curate.

The furniture is either very heavy, stuffed, sprung, and
tapestry-covered, or very light. There are quite a number of
small tables (occasional-tables they are called), which should
have four legs but have only three. There are several chairs, too,
on which it would be unwise to sit down.

In the centre of the room, beneath the hanging, pink-shaded,
electric chandelier, is a mahogany monument, a large round
table of the "pedestal" variety, and on it tower to a climax the
vicarage symbols of gentility and culture. In the centre of this
table, beneath a glass shade, an elaborate reproduction of some
sixteenth-century Pieta (a little High Church, it is thought; but
Art, for some reason, runs that way). It stands on a Chinese
silk mat, sent home by some exiled uncle. It is symmetrically
surrounded by gift books, a photograph album, a tray of painted
Indian figures (very jolly! another gift from the exiled uncle),
and a whale's tooth. The wfwle affair is draped with a red em-
broidered cloth.

The window of the room, with so many sorts of curtains and
blinds to it that one would think the Vicar hatched conspiracies
here by night, admits but a blurring light, which the carpet
(Brussels) reflects, toned to an ugly yellow.

You really would not expect such a thing to be happening in
such a place, but this carpet is at the moment the base of an ap-
parently mortal struggle. The Vicar is undermost, his baldish

ROCOCO 205

head, when he tries to raise it, falls back and bumps. Kneeling
on him, throttling his collar, is a hefty young man conscientiously
out of temper, with scarlet face glowing against carrotty hair.
His name is Reginald and he is (one regrets to add) the
Vicar's nephew, though it be only by marriage. The Vicar's
wife, fragile and fifty, is making pathetic attempts to pull
him off.

"Have you had enough?" asks Reginald and grips the Vicar
hard.

"Oh, Reginald . . . be good," is all the Vicar's wife's
appeal.

Not tioo yards off a minor battle rages. Mrs. Reginald, com-
ing up to reinforce, was intercepted by Miss Underwood, the
Vicar's sister, on the same errand. The elder lady now has the
younger pinned by the elbows and she emphasises this very
handsome control of the situation by teeth-rattling shakes.

"Cat . . . cat . . . cat!" gasps Mrs. Reginald, who is
plump and flaxen and easily disarranged.

Miss Underivood only shakes her again. "I'll teach you
manners, miss."

"Oh, Reginald . . . do drop him," moans poor Mrs. Un-
derwood. For this is really very bad for the Vicar.

"Stick a pin into him, Mary," advises her sister-in-law.
Whereat Mrs. Reginald yelps in her iron grasp,

" Don t you dare . . . it's poisonous," and then, "Oh . . .
if you weren't an old woman I'd have boxed your ears."

Three violent shakes. "Would you? Would you? Would
you?"

"I haven't got a pin, Carinthia," says Mrs. Underivood.
She has conscientiously searched.

"Pull his hair, then," commands Carinthia.

At intervals, like a signal gun, Reginald repeats his query:
"Have you had enough?" And the Vicar, though it is evident
that he has, still, with some unsur rendering school-days' echo
answering in his mind, will only gasp, " Most undignified . . .
clergyman of the Church of England . . . your host, sir . . .
ashamed of you . . . let me up at once."

206 ROCOCO

Mrs. Underwood has jailed at the hair; she flaps her hands in
despair. "It's too short, Carinthia," she moans.

Mrs. Reginald begins to sob pitifully. It is very painful to
be tightly held by the elbows from behind. So Miss Underwood,
with the neatest of twists and pushes, lodges her in a chair, and
thus released herself, folds her arms and surveys the situation.
"Box my ears, would you?" is her postscript.
mrs. Reginald. Well . . . you boxed father's.
miss underwood. Where is your wretched father-in-law?

[Her hawklike eye surveys the room for this unknown in vain.
Reginald {the proper interval having apparently elapsed).

Have you had enough?

[Dignified he cannot look, thus outstretched. The Vicar,

therefore, assumes a mixed expression of saintliness and ob-
stinacy, his next best resource. His poor wife moans

again. . . .
mrs. underwood. Oh, please, Reginald . . . the floor's so

hard for him!
Reginald (a little anxious to have done with it himself) . Have

you had enough?
the vicar (quite supine). Do you consider this conduct be-
coming a gentleman?
mrs. underwood. And . . . Simon ! ... if the servants

have heard . . . they must have heard. What will they

think?

[No, even this heart-breaking appeal falls flat.
Reginald. Say you've had enough and I'll let you up.
the vicar (reduced to casuistry). It's not at all the sort of

thing I ought to say.
MRS. underwood (so helpless). Oh . . . I think you might

say it, Simon, just for once.
miss underwood (grim with the pride of her own victory).

Say nothing of the sort, Simon!

[ The Vicar has a burst of exasperation; for, after all, he is on

the floor and being knelt on.
the vicar. Confound it all, then, Carinthia, why don't you

do something?

ROCOCO 207

[Carinthia casts a tactical eye over Reginald. The Vicar
adds in parenthesis . . . a human touch! . . .

the vicar. Don't kneel there, you young fool, you'll break
my watch!

miss underwood. Wait till I get my breath.

[But this prospect raises in Mrs. Underwood a perfect dithy-
ramb of despair.

mrs. underwood. Oh, please, Carinthia . . . No . . .
don't start again. Such a scandal ! I wonder everything's
not broken. (So coaxingly to Reginald) Shall I say it for
him?

mrs. Reginald (fat little bantam, as she smooths her feathers
in the armchair). You make him say it, Reggie.
[But now the servants are on poor Mrs. Underwood's brain.
Almost down to her knees she goes.

mrs. underwood. They'll be coming up to see what the
noise is. Oh . . . Simon!

[It does strike the Vicar that this would occasion considerable
scandal in the parish. There are so few good excuses for being
found lying on the carpet, your nephew kneeling threateningly
on the top of you. So he makes up his mind to it and enun-
ciates with musical charm; it might be a benediction. . . . i

the vicar. I have had enough.

Reginald (in some relief). That's all right.

[He rises from the prostrate church militant; he even helps it
rise. This pleasant family party then look at each other y
and, truth to tell, they are all a little ashamed.

mrs. underwood (walking round the re-erected pillar of right-
eousness). Oh, how dusty you are!

miss underwood. Yes! (The normal self uprising) Room's
not been swept this morning.

[The Vicar, dusted, feels that a reign of moral law can now
be resumed. He draws himself up to fully five foot six.

the vicar. Now, sir, you will please apologise.

Reginald (looking very muscular). I shall not.

[The Vicar drops the subject. Mrs. Reginald mutters and
crows from the armchair.

208 ROCOCO

mrs. Reginald. Ha . . . who began it? Black and blue
I am ! Miss Underwood can apologise . . . your precious
sister can apologise.

miss underwood (crushing if inconsequent). You're running
to fat, Gladys. Where's my embroidery?

mrs. underwood. I put it safe, Carinthia. (She discloses
it and then begins to pat and smooth the dishevelled room)
Among relations too! One expects to quarrel sometimes
... it can't be helped. But not fighting! Oh, I never
did ... I feel so ashamed!

miss underwood (Britannia-like) . Nonsense, Mary.

mrs. Reginald. Nobody touched you, Aunt Mary.

the vicar (after his eyes have wandered vaguely round).
Where's your father, Reginald?

Reginald (quite uninterested. He is straightening his own tie
and collar). I don't know.

[In the little silence that follows there comes a voice from
under the mahogany monument. It is a voice at once digni-
fied and pained, and the property of Reginald's father, whose
name is Mortimer Uglow. And it says . . .

the voice. I am here.

mrs. underwood (ivho may be forgiven nerves). Oh, how
uncanny !

Reginald (still at his tie). Well, you can come out, father,
it's quite safe.

the voice (most unexpectedly). I shall not. (And then more
unexpectedly still) You can all leave the room.

the vicar (wJw is generally resentful). Leave the room!
whose room is it, mine or yours? Come out, Mortimer,
and don't be a fool.

[But there is only silence. Why will not Mr. Uglow come out?
Must he be ratted for? Then Mrs. Underwood sees why.
She points to an object on the floor.

mrs. underwood. Simon !

the vicar. What is it?

[Again, and this time as if to indicate some mystery,
Mrs. Underwood points. The Vicar picks up the object,

ROCOCO 209

some dissection of the fight he thinks, and waves it
mildly.

the vicar. Well, where does it go? I wonder everything
in the room's not been upset!

mrs. underwood. No, Simon, it's not a mat, it's his . . .
[She concludes with an undeniable gesture, even a smile. The
Vicar, sniffing a little, hands over the trophy.

Reginald (as he views it). Oh, of course.

mrs. Reginald. Reggie, am I tidy at the back?

[lie tidies her at the back — a meticulous matter of hooks and
eyes and oh, his fingers are so big. Mrs. Underwood has
taken a Utile hand-fainted mirror from the mantelpiece, and
this and the thing in question she places just without the
screen of the falling tablecloth much as a devotee might place
an offering at a shrine. But in Miss Underwood dwells no
respect for persons.

miss underwood. Now, sir, for Heaven's sake put on your
wig and come out.

[There emerges a hand that trembles with wrath; it retrieves
the offerings; there follow bumping s into the tablecloth as of
a head and elbows.

the vicar. I must go and brush myself.

mrs. underwood. Simon, d'you think you could tell the
maids that something fell over . . . they are such tat-
tlers. It wouldn't be untrue. [It wouldn't.

the vicar. I should scorn to do so, Mary. If they ask me,
I must make the best explanation I can.
[The Vicar swims out. Mr. Mortimer Ugloiv, his wig as-
sumed and hardly awry at all, emerges from beneath the table.
He is a vindictive-looking little man.

mrs. underwood. You're not hurt, Mortimer, are you?
[Mr. Uglow's only wound is in the dignity. That he cures
by taking the situation oratorically in hand.

mr. uglow. If we are to continue this family discussion
and if Miss Underwood, whom it does not in the least
concern, has not the decency to leave the room and if
you, Mary, cannot request your sister-in-law to leave

210 ROCOCO

it, I must at least demand that she does not speak to

me again.

[Whoever else might be impressed, Miss Underwood is not.

She does not even glance up from her embroidery.
miss underwood. A good thing for you I hadn't my thimble

on when I did it.
mrs. underwood. Carinthia, I don't think you should have

boxed Mortimer's ears . . . you know him so slightly.
miss underwood. He called me a Futile Female. I con-
sidered it a suitable reply.

[The echo of that epigram brings compensation to Mr. Uglow.

He puffs his chest.
mr. uglow. Your wife rallied to me, Reginald. I am much

obliged to her . . . which is more than can be said of you.
Reginald. Well, you can't hit a woman.
mr. uglow (bitingly). And she knows it.
miss underwood. Pf!

[The sound conveys that she ivould tackle a regiment of men

with her umbrella: and she would.
Reginald {apoplectic, but he has worked down to the waist).

There's a hook gone.
mrs. Reginald. I thought so! Lace torn?
Reginald. It doesn't show much. But I tackled Uncle

Simon the minute he touched Gladys . . . that got my

blood up all right. Don't you worry. We won.

[This callously sporting summary is too much for Mrs. Un-
derwood: she dissolves.
mrs. underwood. Oh, that such a thing should ever have

happened in our house ! ... in my drawing-room ! ! . . .

real blows! ! ! . . .
mrs. Reginald. Don't cry, Aunt Mary ... it wasn't your

fault.

[The Vicar returns, his hair and his countenance smoother.

He adds his patting consolations to his poor wife's comfort.
mrs. underwood. And I was kicked on the shin.
mrs. Reginald. Say you're sorry, Reggie.
the vicar. My dear Mary . . . don't cry.

HOCOCO 211

mrs. underwood (clasping her beloved's arm). Simon did
it . . . Reggie was throttling him black ... he couldn't
help it.

the vicar. I suggest that we show a more or less Christian
spirit in letting bygones be bygones and endeavour to re-
sume the discussion at the point where it ceased to be an
amicable one. (His wife, her clasp on his coat, through her
drying tears has found more trouble) Yes, there is a slight
rent . . . never mind.

[The family party now settles itself into what may have been
more or less the situations from which they were roused to
physical combat. Mr. Uglow secures a central place.

mr. uglow. My sister-in-law Jane had no right to bequeath
the Vase ... it was not hers to bequeath.
[That is the gage of battle. A legacy! What English family
has not at some time shattered its mutual regard upon this
iron rock. One notices now that all these good folk are in
deepest mourning, on which the dust of combat stands up the
more distinctly, as indeed it shoidd.

mrs. underwood. Oh, Mortimer, think if you'd been able
to come to the funeral and this had all happened then . . .
it might have done!

miss underwood. But it didn't, Mary . . . control your-
self.

mr. uglow. My brother George wrote to me on his death-
bed . . . {and then fiercely to the Vicar, as if this con-
cerned his calling) ... on his death-bed, sir. I have
the letter here. . . .

the vicar. Yes, we've heard it.

Reginald. And you sent them a copy.

[Mr. Uglow's hand always seems to tremble; this time it is
with excitement as he has pulled the letter from his pocket-book.

mr. uglow. Quiet, Reginald! Hear it again and pay at-
tention. (They settle to a strained boredom) "The Rococo
Vase presented to me by the Emperor of Germany"
. . . Now there he's wrong. (The sound of his oion reading
has uplifted him: he condescends to them) They're German

212 ROCOCO

Emperors, not Emperors of Germany. But George was
an inaccurate fellow. Reggie has the same trick . . .
it's in the family. I haven't it.

[He is returning to the letter. But the Vicar interposes,
lamblike, ominous though.

the vicar. I have not suggested on Mary's behalf ... I
wish you would remember, Mortimer, that the position I
take up in this matter, I take up purely on my wife's behalf.
What have I to gain?

Reginald (clodhopping) . Well, you're her husband, aren't
you? She'll leave things to you. And she's older than
you are.

the vicar. Reginald, you are most indelicate. (And then,
really thinking it is true . . . ) I have forborne to de-
mand an apology from you. . . .

Reginald. Because you wouldn't get it.

mrs. underwood (genuinely and generously accommodating).
Oh, I don't want the vase ... I don't want anything!

the vicar (he is gradually mounting the pulpit). Don't think
of the vase, Mary. Think of the principle involved.

mrs. underwood. And you may die first, Simon. You're
not strong, though you look it . . . all the colds you get
. . . and nothing's ever the matter with me.

mr. uglow (ignored . . . ignored!). Mary, how much
longer am I to wait to read this letter?

the vicar (ominously, ironically lamblike now). Quite so.
Your brother is waiting patiently . . . and politely.
Come, come; a Christian and a businesslike spirit!
[Mr. Uglow' s very breath has been taken to resume the reading
of the letter, when on him . . . worse, on that tender top-
knot of his . . . he finds Miss Underwood's hawklike eye.
Its look passes through him, piercing Infinity as she says . . .

miss underwood. Wby not a skull-cap ... a sanitary
skull cap?

mr. uglow (with a minatory though fearful gasp). What's
that?

the vicar. Nothing, Mortimer.

ROCOCO 213

keginald. Some people look for trouble!

miss underwood (addressing the Infinite still). And those

that it fits can wear it.
the vicar (a little fearful himself. He is terrified of his sister,

thafs the truth. And well he may be). Let's have the

letter, Mortimer.
miss underwood. Or at least a little gum ... a little

glue ... a little stickphast for decency's sake.

[She swings it to a beautiful rhythm. No, on the wlwle, Mr.

Uglow will not join issue.
MR. uglow. I trust that my dignity requires no vindication.

Never mind ... I say nothing. (And with a forgiving

air he returns at last to the letter) "The Rococo Vase pre-
sented to me by the Emperor of Germany" ... or

German Emperor.
the vicar. Agreed. Don't cry, Mary. Well, here's a

clean one.

[Benevolently he hands her a handkerchief.
mr. uglow. "On the occasion of my accompanying the

mission."
miss underwood. Mission!

[The word has touched a spot.
the vicar. Not a real mission, Carinthia.
MR. uglow. A perfectly real mission. A mission from the

Chamber of Commerce at . . . Don't go on as if the

world were made up of low church parsons and . . . and

. . . their sisters!

[As a convinced secularist behold him a perfect fighting cock.
Reginald (bored, but oh, so bored!) . Do get ahead, father.
MR. uglow (with a flourish). "Mission et cetera." Here

we are. "My dear wife must have the enjoyment" . . .

(Again he condescends to them) Why he called her his dear

wife I don't know. They hated each other like poison.

But that was George all over . . . soft . . . never

would face the truth. It's a family trait. You show signs

of it, Mary.
the vicar (soft and low). He was on his death-bed.

214 ROCOCO

Reginald. Get on . . . father.

mr. uglow. "My wife" . . . She wasn't his dear wife.
What's the good of pretending it? . . . "must have the
enjoyment of it while she lives. At her death I desire it to
be an heirloom for the family." (And he makes the last
sentence tell, every word) There you are !

the vicar {lamblike, ominous, ironic, persistent). You sit
looking at Mary. His sister and yours. Is she a member
of the family or not?

mr. uglow (cocksure). Boys before girls . . . men be-
before women. Don't argue that . . . it's the law.
Titles and heirlooms ... all the same thing.

mrs. underwood (worm-womanlike, turning ever so little).
Mortimer, it isn't as if we weren't giving you all the
family things . . . the miniature and the bust of John
Bright and grandmother's china and the big Shake-
speare . . .

mr. uglow. Giving them, Mary, giving them?

the vicar. Surrendering tbem willingly, Mortimer. They
have ornamented our house for years.

mrs. Reginald. It isn't as if you hadn't done pretty well
out of Aunt Jane while she was alive!

the vicar. Oh, delicacy, Gladys! And some regard for
the truth!

mrs. Reginald (no nonsense about her). No, if we're talking
business let's talk business. Her fifty pounds a year more
than paid you for keeping her, didn't it? Did it or
didn't it?

Reginald (gloomily). She never ate anything that I could
see.

the vicar. She had a delicate appetite. It needed teas-
ing ... I mean coaxing. Oh, dear, this is most un-
pleasant !

Reginald. Fifty pound a year is nearly a pound a week,
you know.

the vicar. What about her clothes . . . what about her
little holidays . . . what about the doctor . . . what

ROCOCO 215

about her temper to the last? {He summons the classics
to clear the sordid air) Oh: De mortuis nil nisi bonum!

mrs. underwood. She was a great trouble with her meals,
Reginald.

MR. uglow {letting rip). She was a horrible woman. I dis-
liked her more than any woman I've ever met. She
brought George to bankruptcy. When he was trying to
arrange with his creditors and she came into the room, her
face would sour them ... I tell you, sour them.

mrs. Reginald {she sums it up). Well, Uncle Simon's a
clergyman and can put up with unpleasant people. It
suited them well enough to have her. You had the room,
Aunt Mary, you can't deny that. And anyway she's
dead now . . . poor Aunt Jane! {She throws this con-
ventional verbal bone to Cerberus) And what with the
things she has left you . . . ! What's to be done with
her clothes?

[Gladys and Mrs. Underwood suddenly face each other like
two ladylike ghouls.

mrs. underwood. Well, you remember the mauve silk . . ,

the vicar. Mary, pray allow me. {Somehow his delicacy
is shocked) The Poor.

mrs. Reginald {in violent protest). Not the mauve silk!
Nor her black lace shawl !

miss underwood {shooting it out). They will make soup.
[It makes Mr. Uglow jump, physically and mentally too.

mr. uglow. What!

miss underwood. The proceeds of their sale will make much
needed soup . . . and blankets. {Again her gaze trans-
fixes that wig and she addresses Eternity) No brain under
it! . . . No wonder it's loose! No brain.
[31 r. Uglow just manages to ignore it.

Reginald. Where is the beastly vase? I don't know that
I want to inherit it.

MR. uglow. Yes, may I ask for the second or third time
to-day? . . .

Miss underwood. The third.

216 ROCOCO

mr. ttglow (he screws a baleful glance at her). May I ask
for the second or third time . . .

Reginald. It is the third time, father.

mr. uglow (his own son, too!). Reginald, you have no tact.
May I ask why the vase is not to be seen?

miss underwood (sharply). It's put away.

mrs. Reginald (as sharp as she. Never any nonsense about
Gladys). Why?

mr. uglow. Gladys . . . ignore that, please, Mary?

mrs. underwood. Yes, Mortimer.

mr. uglow. It has been chipped.

the vicar. It has not been chipped.

mr. uglow. If it has been chipped . . .

the vicar. I say it has not been chipped.

mr. uglow. If it had been chipped, sir ... I should have
held you responsible! Produce it.

[He is indeed very much of a man. A little more and he'll
slap his chest. But the Vicar, lamblike, etc. . . . we can
now add dangerous. . . .

the vicar. Oh, no, we must not be ordered to produce it.

MR. uglow (trumpet-toned). Produce it, Simon.

the vicar. Neither must we be shouted at.

miss underwood. ... or bawled at. Bald at! Ha, ha!
[And she taps her grey-haired parting with a thimbled finger
to emphasise the pun. Mr. Uglow rises, too intent on his
next impressive stroke even to notice it, or seem to.

mr. uglow. Simon, if you do not instantly produce the vase
I shall refuse to treat this any longer in a friendly way. I
shall place the matter in the hands of my solicitors.
[This, in any family — is it not the final threat? Mrs. Un-
derwood is genuinely shocked.

mrs. underwood. Oh, Simon!

the vicar. As a matter of principle, Mary. . . .

Reginald (impartially). What rot!

mrs. underwood. It was put away, I think, so that the
sight of it might not rouse discussion . . . wasn't it,
Simon?

ROCOCO 217

Reginald. Well, we've had the discussion. Now get it out.
the vicar (lamblike . . . etc.; add obstinate now). It is my

principle not to submit to dictation. If I were asked

politely to produce it. . . .
Reginald. Ask him politely, father.
mr. uglow (why shouldn't he have principles, too?). I don't

think I can. To ask politely might be an admission of

some right of his to detain the property. This matter will

go further. I shall commit myself in nothing without

legal advice.
mrs. Reginald. You get it out, Aunt Mary.
mrs. underwood (almost thankful to be helpless in the matter).

I can't. I don't know where it is.
mr. uglow (all the instinct for Law in him blazing). You

don't . . . ! This is important. He has no right to

keep it from you, Mary. I venture to think . . .
the vicar. Husband and wife are one, Mortimer.
MR. uglow. Not in Law. Don't you cram your religion

down my throat. Not in Law any longer. We've im-
proved all that. The married woman's property act! I

venture to think. . . .

[Miss Underwood has disappeared. Her comment is to slam

the door.
mrs. underwood. I think perhaps Carinthia has gone for

it, Mortimer.
mr. uglow (the case given him, he asks for costs, as it were).

Then I object. ... I object most strongly to this

woman knowing the whereabouts of a vase which you,

Mary. . . .
the vicar (a little of the mere layman peeping now) . Mortimer,

do not refer to my sister as "this woman."
mr. uglow. Then treat my sister with the respect that is

due to her, Simon.

[They are face to face.
the vicar. I hope I do, Mortimer.
mr. uglow. And will you request Miss Underwood not to

return to this room with or without the vase?

218 ROCOCO

the vicar. Why should I?

MR. uglow. What has she to do with a family matter of
mine? I make no comment, Mary, upon the way you
allow yourself to be ousted from authority in your own
house. It is not my place to comment upon it and I make
none. I make no reference to the insults . . . the un-
womanly insults that have been hurled at me by this
Futile Female. . . .

Reginald (a remembered schoolmaster joke. He feels not un-
like one as he watches his two elders squared to each other).
Apt alliteration's artful aid . . . what?

mr. uglow. Don't interrupt.

mrs. Reginald. You're getting excited again, father.

MR. uglow. I am not.

mrs. Reginald. Father!

[There is one sure way to touch Mr. Uglow. She takes it.
She points to his wig.

mr. uglow. What? Well . . . where's a glass . . .
where's a glass?
[He goes to the mantelpiece mirror. His sister follows him.

MRS. underwood. We talked it over this morning, Mor-
timer, and we agreed that I am of a yielding disposition
and I said I should feel much safer if I did not even know
where it was while you were in the house.

mr. uglow (with every appropriate bitterness). And I your
loving brother!

the vicar (not to be outdone by Reginald in quotations) . A
little more than kin and less than kind.

MR. uglow (his wig is straight). How dare you, Simon? A
little more than ten minutes ago I was struck . . . here
in your house. How dare you quote poetry at me?
[The Vicar feels he must pronounce on this.

the vicar. I regret that Carinthia has a masterful nature.
She is apt to take the law into her own hands. And I
fear there is something about you, Mortimer, that invites
violence. I can usually tell when she is going to be unruly;
there's a peculiar twitching of her hands. If you had not

ROCOCO 219

been aggravating us all with your so-called arguments,
I should have noticed it in time and . . . taken
steps.

MRS. underwood. We're really very sorry, Mortimer. We
can always . . . take steps. But . . . dear me ! . . .
I was never so surprised in my life. You all seemed to go
mad at once. It makes me hot now to think of it.
[The truth about Carinthia is that she is sometimes thought to
be a little off her head. It's a form of genius.

the vicar. I shall have a headache to-morrow . . . my
sermon day.

[Mr. Uglow now begins to gloiv with a sense of coming victory.
And he's not bad-natured, give him what he wants.

mr. uglow. Oh, no, you won't. More frightened than
hurt! These things will happen . . . the normal gross-
feeding man sees red, you know, sees red. Reggie as a
small boy . . . quite uncontrollable!

Reginald. Well, I like that ! You howled out for help.

the vicar (lamblike and only lamblike). I am willing to ob-
literate the memory.

mrs. Reginald. I'm sure I'm black and blue . . . and
more torn than I can see.

mr. uglow. But what can you do when a woman forgets
herself? I simply stepped aside ... I happen to value
my dignity.

[The door opens. Miss Underwood with the vase. She de-
posits it on the mahogany table. It is two feet in height. It
is lavishly blotched with gold and white and red. It has curves
and crinkles. Its handles are bossy. My God, it is a Vase!

miss underwood. There it is.

mr. uglow (with a victor's dignity). Thank you, Miss Un-
derwood. (He puts up gold-rimmed glasses) Ah . . .
pure Rococo!

Reginald. The Vi-Cocoa vase!

mr. uglow. That's not funny, Reginald.

Reginald. Well ... I think it is.

[The trophy before him, Mr. Uglow mellows.

220 ROCOCO

MR. uglow. Mary, you've often heard George tell us. The

Emperor welcoming 'em . . . fine old fellow . . .

speech in German . . . none of them understood it.

Then at the end . . . Gentlemen, I raise my glass. Hock

. . . hock . . . hock!
Reginald (who knows a German accent when he hears it). A

little more spit in it.
mr. uglow. Reginald, you're very vulgar.
Reginald. Is that Potsdam?

[The monstrosity has coloured views on it, one back, one

front.
mr. uglow. Yes . . . home of Friedrich der Grosse! A

great nation. We can learn a lot from 'em !

[This was before the war. What he says of them now is un-
printable.
Reginald. Yes. I suppose its' a jolly handsome piece of

goods. Cost a lot.
mr. uglow. Royal factory . . . built to imitate Sevres!

[Apparently he would contemplate it for hours. But the

Vicar . . . Lamblike, etc.; add insinuating now.
the vicar. Well, Mortimer, here is the vase. Now where

are we?
mrs. Reginald (really protesting for the first time). Oh . . .

are we going to begin all over again! Why don't you sell

it and share up?
mrs. underwood. Gladys, I don't think that would be quite

nice.
mrs. Reginald. I can't see why not.
mr. uglow. Sell an heirloom ... it can't be done.
Reginald. Oh, yes, it can. You and I together . . . cut

off the entail . . . that's what it's called. It'd fetch

twenty pounds at Christie's.
mr. uglow (the sight of it has exalted him beyond reason).
More . . . more! First class rococo. I shouldn't dream

of it.

[Miss Underwood has resumed her embroidery. She pulls a

determined needle as she says. . . .

ROCOCO 221

miss underwood. I think Mary would have a share in the
proceeds, wouldn't she?

MR. uglow. I think not.

the vicar. Why not, Mortimer?

MR. uglow (with fine detachment). Well, it's a point of law.
I'm not quite sure . . . but let's consider it in Equity.
(Not that he knows what on earth he means!) If I died . . .
and Reginald died childless and Mary survived us . . .
and it came to her? Then there would be our cousins the
Bamfords as next inheritors. Could she by arrangement
with them sell and . . . ?

mrs. underwood. I shouldn't like to sell it. It would
seem like a slight on George . . . because he went
bankrupt perhaps. And Jane always had it in her
bedroom.

Miss, underwood (thimbling the determined needle through).
Most unsuitable for a bedroom.

mrs. underwood (anxious to please). Didn't you suggest,
Simon, that I might undertake not to leave it out of the
family?

the vicar (covering a weak spot). In private conversation
with you, Mary . . .

mr. uglow (most high and mighty, oh most!). I don't accept
the suggestion. I don't accept it at all.

the vicar (and noiv taking the legal line in his turn). Let me
point out to you, Mortimer, that there is nothing to pre-
vent Mary's selling the vase for her own exclusive benefit.

MR. uglow (his guard down). Simon!

the vicar (satisfied to have touched him). Once again, I
merely insist upon a point of principle.

MR. uglow (but now flourishing his verbal sioord) . And I
insist ... let everybody understand it ... I insist
that all thought of selling an heirloom is given up! Regi-
nald . . . Gladys, you are letting me be exceedingly
upset.

Reginald. Well . . . shall I walk off with it? They
couldn't stop me.

222 ROCOCO

[He lifts it up; and this simplest of solutions strikes them all
stupent; except Miss Underwood, who glances under her
bushy eyebrows.

miss underwood. You'll drop it if you're not careful.

MRS. underwood. Oh, Reggie, you couldn't carry that to
the station . . . everyone would stare at you.

the vicar. I hope you would not be guilty of such an un-
principled act.

mrs. Reginald. I won't have it at home, Reg, so I tell you.
One of the servants 'd be sure to ... ! (She sighs des-
perately) Why not sell the thing?

mr. uglow. Gladys, be silent.

Reginald (as he pids the vase down, a little nearer the edge of
the table). It is a weight.

[So they have argued high and argued low and also argued
round about it; they have argued in a full circle. And now
there is a deadly calm. Mr. Uglow breaks it; his voice
trembles a little as does his hand with its signet ring rattling
on the table.

mr. uglow. Then we are just where we started half an hour
ago . . . are we, Simon?

the vicar (lamblike in excelsis). Precisely, Mortimer.

mr. uglow. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. (He gazes at
them with cool ferocity) Now let us all keep our
tempers.

the vicar. I hope I shall have no occasion to lose mine.

mr. uglow. Nor I mine.

[He seems not to move a muscle, but in some mysterious way
his wig shifts: a sure sign.

mrs. underwood. Oh, Mortimer, you're going to get ex-
cited.

mr. uglow. I think not, Mary. I trust not.

Reginald (proffering real temptation). Father . . . come
away and wriie a letter about it.

mr. uglow (as his wrath swells) . If I write a letter ... if
my solicitors have to write a letter . . . there are
people here who will regret this day.

ROCOCO 223

mrs. underwood (trembling at the coming storm). Simon,

I'd much sooner he took it ... I'd much rather he took

everything Jane left me.
MR. uglow. Jane did not leave it to you, Mary.
mrs. underwood. Oh, Mortimer, she did try to leave it to

me.
MR. uglow (running up the scale of indignation). She may

have tried . . . but she did not succeed . . . because

she could not . . . because she had no right to do so.

(And reaching the summit) I am not in the least excited.

[Suddenly Miss Underwood takes a shrewd hand in the game.
miss underwood. Have you been to your lawyer?
mr. uglow (swivelling round). What's that?
miss uglow. Have you asked your lawyer?

[He has not.
mr. uglow. Gladys, I will not answer her. I refuse to

answer the . . . the . . . the female.

[But he has funked the "futile."
mrs. Reginald (soothing him). All right, father.
miss underwood. He hasn't because he knows what his

lawyer would say. Rot's what his lawyer would say !
mr. uglow (calling on the gods to protect this woman from him).

Heaven knows I wish to discuss this calmly!
Reginald. Aunt Mary, might I smoke?
miss underwood. Not in the drawing-room.
mrs. underwood. No . . . not in the drawing-room,

please, Reginald.
mr. uglow. You're not to go away, Reginald.
Reginald. Oh, well . . . hurry up.

[Mr. Uglow looks at the Vicar. The Vicar is actually smiling.

Can this mean defeat for the house of Uglow? Never.
mr. uglow. Do I understand that on your wife's behalf

you entirely refuse to own the validity of my brother

George's letter . . . where is it? . . . I read you the

passage written on his death-bed.
the vicar (measured and confident. Victory gleams for him

now). Why did he not mention the vase in his will?

224 ROCOCO

mr. uglow. There were a great many things he did not

mention in his will.
the vicar. Was his widow aware of the letter?
mr. uglow. You know she was.
the vicar. Why did she not carry out what you think to

have been her husband's intention?
mr. uglow. Because she was a beast of a woman.

[Mr. Uglow is getting the worst of it, his temper is slipping.
mrs. underwood. Mortimer, what language about the

newly dead!
the vicar. An heirloom in the family?
mr. uglow. Quite so.
the vicar. On what grounds do you maintain that George's

intentions are not carried out when it is left to my wife?

[And indeed, "Mr. Uglow is against the ropes ", so to speak.
miss underwood. The man hasn't a wig to stand on. . . .

I mean a leg.
MR. uglow (pale with fury, hoarse with it, even pathetic in it) .

Don't you speak to me ... I request you not to speak

to me.

[Reginald and Gladys quite seriously think this is bad for

him.
Reginald. Look here, father, Aunt Mary will undertake not

to let it go out of the family. Leave it at that.
mrs. Reginald. We don't want the thing, father . . . the

drawing-room's full already.
mr. uglow (the pathos in him growing; he might flood the best

Brussels with tears at any moment). It's not the vase.

It's no longer the vase. It's the principle.
mrs. underwood. Oh, don't, Mortimer . . . don't be

like Simon. That's why I mustn't give in. It'll make it

much more difficult if you start thinking of it like that.
miss underwood (pulling and pushing that embroidery needle

more grimly than ever). It's a principle in our family not

to be bullied.
mrs. Reginald (in almost a vulgar tone, really). If she'd go

and mind her own family's business!

ROCOCO 225

[The vicar knows that he has his Uglows on the run. Suavely

he presses the advantage.
the vicar. I am sorry to repeat myself, Mortimer, but the

vase was left to Jane absolutely. It has been specifically

left to Mary. She is under no obligation to keep it in the

family.
mr. uglow (control breaking). You'll get it, will you . . .

you and your precious female sister?
the vicar (quieter and quieter; that superior quietude). Oh,

this is so unpleasant.
mr. uglow (control broken). Never! Never! ! . . . not if

I beggar myself in law-suits.
miss underwood (a sudden and vicious jab). Who wants the

hideous thing?
mr. uglow (broken, all of him. In sheer hysterics. Tears

starting from his eyes) . Hideous! You hear her? They'd

sell it for what'd it would fetch. My brother George's

rococo vase! An objet d'art et vertu ... an heirloom

... a family record of public service! Have you no

feelings, Mary?
mrs. underwood (dissolved). Oh, I'm very unhappy.

[Again are Mr. Uglow and the Vicar breast to breast.
the vicar. Don't make your sister cry, sir.
mr. uglow. Make your sister hold her tongue, sir. She has

no right in this discussion at all. Am I to be provoked and

badgered by a Futile Female?

[The Vicar and Mr. Ugloio are intent on each other, the others

are intent on them. No one notices that Miss Underwood' s

embroidery is very decidedly laid down and that her fingers

begin to twitch.
the vicar. How dare you suppose, Mortimer, that Mary

and I would not respect the wishes of the dead?
mr. uglow. It's nothing to do with you, either.

[Miss Underwood has risen from her chair. This Gladys

does notice.
mrs. Reginald. I say . . . Uncle Simon.
the vicar. What is it?

226 ROCOCO

Reginald. Look here, Uncle Simon, let Aunt Mary write a

letter undertaking. . . . There's no need for all this

row. . .
mrs. underwood. I will! I'll undertake anything!
the vicar (the Church on its militant dignity now). Keep

calm, Mary. I am being much provoked, too. Keep

calm.
MR. uglow (stamping it out). He won't let her ... he

and his sister ... he won't give way in anything. Why

should I be reasonable?
Reginald. If she will undertake it, will you . . . ?
mrs. Reginald. Oh, Aunt Mary, stop her!

[In the precisest manner possible, judging her distance with

care, aiming well and true, Miss Underwood has for the

second time to-day, soundly boxed Mr. Uglow' 's ear. He yells.
mr. uglow. I say . . . I'm hurt.
Reginald. Look here now . . . not again!
the vicar (he gets flustered. No ivonder). Carinthia! I

should have taken steps! It is almost excusable.
MR. uglow. I'm seriously hurt.

mrs. Reginald. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
miss underwood. Did you feel the thimble?
mrs. underwood. Oh, Carinthia, this is dreadful!
mr. uglow. I wish to preserve my dignity.

[He backs out of her reach that he may the better do so.
miss underwood. Your wig's crooked.
mrs. Reginald (rousing: though her well-pinched arms have

lively recollections of half an hour ago). Don't you insult

my father.
miss underwood. Shall .1 put it straight? It'll be off

again.

[She advances, her eyes gleaming. To do . . . Heaven

knows ivhat!
mr. uglow (still backing). Go away.
Reginald (who really doesn't fancy tackling the lady either).

Why don't you keep her in hand?
mr. uglow (backed as far as he can, and in terror). Simon,

ROCOCO 227

you're a cad and your sister's u mad end. Take her away.
[But this the Vicar will not endure. He has been called a cad,
and that no English gentleman ivill stand, and a clergyman
is a gentleman, sir. In ringing tones and with his finest
gesture you hear him. "Get out of my house!" Mr. Uglow
doubtless could reply more fittingly were it not that Miss Un-
derwood still approaches. He is feebly forcible merely.
" Dont you order me about," he quavers. What is he but a
fascinated rabbit before the terrible woman? The gentlemanly
Vicar advances — "Get out before I put you out," he vocifer-
ates — Englishman to the backbone. But that is Reginald's
waited-for excuse. "Oh, no, you dont," he says and bears
down on the Vicar. Mrs. Underwood yelps in soft but agon-
ized apprehension: "Oh, Simon, be careful." Mr. Uglow
has his hands up, not indeed in token of surrender, — though
surrender to the virago poised at him he would, — but to shield
his precious wig.

"Mind my head, do," he yells; he ivill have it that it is his
head. "Come aivay from my father," calls out Mrs. Regi-
nald, stoutly clasping Miss Underwood from behind round
that iron-corseted waist. Miss Underwood swivels round.
"Don't you touch me, Miss," she snaps. But Gladys has
weight and the two are toppling groundward while Reginald,
one hand on the Vicar, one grabbing at Miss Underwood to
protect his wife ("Stop it, do!" he shouts), is outbalanced.
And the Vicar making still determinedly for Mr. Uglow, and
Mr. Uglow, his wig securer, preparing to defy the Vicar, the
melee is joined once more. Only Mrs. Underwood is so far
safe.

The fighters breathe hard and sway. They sivay against the
great mahogany table. The Rococo Vase totters; it falls; it
is smashed to pieces. By a supreme effort the immediate
authors of its destruction — linked together — contrive not to sit
down among them. Mrs. Underwood is heard to breathe,
"Oh . . . Thank goodness "

JAMES AND JOHN

GILBERT CANNAN

Gilbert Cannan was born in 1884. He received his early
education in Manchester. He later attended King's College,
Cambridge, and was called to the Bar in 1908. He evidently
practised very little or not at all, for the next year he became
dramatic critic on The Star.

Cannan's most significant work so far is found not in his
plays, but in his novels. The plays are to be judged as ex-
periments rather than the complete expression of the author's
dramatic intention. In a letter to the editor, written not
long ago, he declares: "I must correct your impression that
I was once interested in the drama. I think I have never
really been interested in anything else, all my researches,
however remote they may appear, having been made to that
end. I have lately resumed dramatic criticism for the Lon-
don Nation and before very long shall discard novels for
plays."

Cannan's small plays display a variety of technique and
material indicating uncertainty on his part as to the direction
his future dramatic activities will take. However, he ap-
pears to consider his career as novelist at an end, as he
recently declared that his essays in novel form were merely
a preparation for his career as a dramatist.

PLAYS

* James and John (1910) Three (1913)

Miles Dixon (1910) ^Everybody's Husband

*Mary's Wedding (1912) (1917)

The Perfect Widow (1912) The Arbour of Refuge(1913)

*A Short Way with Authors
(1913)

230 JAMES AND JOHN

"James and John", "Miles Dixon", "Mary's Wedding",
and "A Short Way with Authors" are published in a volume-
"Four Plays", by Sidgwick and Jackson, London; "Every,
body's Husband ", by B. W. Huebsch, New York. The plays
originally included in "Four Plays" have recently appeared
singly, published by LeRoy Phillips, Boston.

References: Gilbert Cannan, "The Joy of the Theater",
E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.

Magazines: Current Opinion, vol. 69, p. 80, New York;
The Dial, vol. 68, p. 173, New York; Theater Arts, January,
1920, New York.

JAMES AND JOHN

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

By GILBERT CANNAN

"James and John" was first produced at London in 1910

Characters

John Betts
James Betts
Mrs. Betts
Mr. Betts

Scene : Their parlour.

Entered in the Library op Congress on July 25, 1913.
Copyright, 1920, by Le Roy Phillips.

All liyhls reserved

Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Le Roy Phillips

JAMES AND JOHN

It is half past nine of an evening and the scene is the parlour
of a little house in a gaunt row of houses in a street in a London
suburb. By the fireplace at the back James and John Belts are
playing backgammon, the board on a little table between them.
They are both grey. James has a beard. John is clean-shaven.
John wears glasses. Both wear morning-coats and both have
carpet slippers. James smokes, John does not. John has a
glass of whisky on the mantelpiece within reach: James is tee-
total. They are absorbed in their game and pay no attention to
their mother, a stout old lady who is sitting in her chair reading a
novel, sleeping, and knitting. Her chair is by another little
table on which the solitary lamp of the room is placed so as to
cast its light on her book. She is directly in front of the fire so
that her back is towards the audience. John is sitting with his
back towards her.

The room is ugly and Mid-Victorian. Its door is to the
right. Its windows to the left. In the window is a stand of
miserable-looking ferns and an india-rubber plant.
james {looking up, abruptly). Very nice. I think I shall

gammon you, John.
john. H'm.

[He rattles the dice furiously, seeing the game go against him.
john {triumphantly). I take you there and there . . .
james. We shall see.

[Silence.
mrs. betts. Did you say it was raining when you came in,

John?
john {turning irritably). I have said so four times.

[Silence. They devote themselves to their game again.
mrs. betts {plaintively, as though she knew full well that her

remarks would fall on deaf ears. She lays down her book).

234 JAMES AND JOHN

This isn't a very interesting book. ... I don't think
books are so interesting as they used to be . . . they all
seem to be trying to be like real life. ... I must say I
like to know who marries who . . . and I don't like
stories about married life. ... I suppose the authors
must be thinking of their own. . . . Depressing. . . .
You haven't said how you like my new cap, Jamie. . . .
You did say it was raining, John? (No answer — only a
frenzied rattle of the dice) I don't think anything has hap-
pened. . . . The next-door people have had trouble with
the servant again. ... A thief this one. ... I wonder if
it is raining. ... I wouldn't like it to be wet for him. . . .
[James and John look at each other and James looks over at
his mother. She is fumbling for her handkerchief.

John. Gammon. . . .

[He rises and looks down at his brother in triumph. Each
takes a little note-book from his pocket and makes a note of
the game.

james. I still lead by two hundred and twenty-three
games. . . .

[Mrs. Beits is wiping her eyes and snuffling. John goes to
her and pats her shoulder kindly.

john. Would you like a game, mamma? . . .

mrs. betts. No — no-o-o ... I couldn't — not to-
night. . . .

james. I thought we had agreed not to talk of it nor to
think of it. . . .

mrs. betts. It — it is all very well for you boys to talk . . .
b-b-but ... I can't help but remember ... all these
years . . .

john. Shall Jamie read to you, mamma?

mrs. betts. It — it was so — so dreadful . . .

james. Yes, yes, mamma. . . . But we agreed that we
would . . .

mrs. betts. It all comes back to me so. . . . The whole
thing. ... I suppose they never talk of it at the bank
now, Jamie . . . ?

JAMES AND JOHN 235

james (exploding). I wish to God he had never lived to

come back again . . .
john. Tssh! — Tssh! . . .
james. I say that he has ruined mamma's life, and your

life and mine. ... I say again that I wish to God he

had never lived to come back. . . .
john. Think of mamma. . . .
mrs. betts. Your own father . . .

[She weeps.
james. It is against my wish that he is allowed to come here

til Ull. ...

john. Do let us try to forget the whole affair until . . .
until he comes. . . . Don't you think it would be better
if you went to bed, mamma?
[James has fallen to pacing up and down the room.

mrs. betts. No; I must stay . . . to . . . to see him . . .

john. You must be brave, then . . .

mrs. betts (making an effort and gulping down her sobs).
Ye-yes. . . . (She takes Johns hand and pats it, while she
anxiously tries to watch James in his pacing) But, John
. . . I'm afraid — afraid of Jamie. . . .
[She says this almost in a whisper but James hears her. He
stops by the fireplace and stands with his back to the fire and
glares at his mother.

james. I am, I hope, a just man . . .

john. We have argued enough. . . . We must wait. . . .
We can't have mamma breaking down before he comes. . . .

james. John, you're a soft fool. . . . This man has done
us all an injury. . . . He has brought misery upon this
house. . . . He has no other place to which to turn:
for a while he may rest under our roof. ... Is that un-
derstood?

john. Quite. . . . Can't you leave it alone?

james. I wish to make myself clearly understood. . . .

john. I think we both understand you . . . and you need
not speak so loud.

james. There must be no sentiment and he must be made

236 JAMES AND JOHN

to understand the terms on which I have consented to
receive him. . . .

mrs. betts. We — we must be kind, Jamie — we must be
kind. . . . He was always a kind man . . .

james. Kind! ... To treat you in the way he did —
and you can call him kind. Oh! the foolishness of
women. . . .

mrs. betts. He was never a bad man. . . . Is it raining,
John?
[John goes to the window and peeps out.

john. Yes, mamma, it is raining.

mrs. betts. Oh! ... It isn't too late for one of you to
meet him at the station . . . is it?

james. You know that that is impossible. ... It is
enough that he is permitted to come here at all. ... It
is my house. . . . The ordering of this affair is in my
hands. . . . Let it be . . .

mrs. betts. He has been punished enough for his sin. . . .

james. We have been punished. / have been punished.
. . . Year after year I have been passed over and men
younger than myself have been promoted. . . . For
years I was made to feel that my continued presence in
the bank was an act of charity. . . . For years I have
felt rather than heard the miserable story whispered to
every raw lad who came to the place . . . and suffered
. . . because my father betrayed his trust. . . . And
you say he was not a bad man . . .

john. Jamie — Jamie —

[Mrs. Betts beats feebly with her hands against him.

james. Jamie ! — Jamie ! — Well enough for you, John —
you were out of it. . . .

[John folds his arms as though he realised the hopelessness of
endeavouring to stem the stream of his brother s indignation,
and to indicate that he also has suffered but is too much a man
to talk about it. This goads James only to further indigna-
tion. John mutters unintelligibly.

james. What do you say? What do you say?

JAMES AND JOHN 237

john. I say that what's done is done and let the past bury
its dead.

james. It is not dead. . . .

MRS. betts. Don't quarrel — don't quarrel. I cannot bear
it. . . .

james. Mother, we must understand each other — you,
John, and I — we must see this thing as it is. . . . Set
aside the fact that this man is our father and your husband.
. . . We must see what he did coldly, dispassionately,
and judge accordingly.

john. I read in a book that no man has the right to judge
another man . . .

james. Facts are facts. . . .

john. We don't know what drove him to do what he
did. . . .

james. We know — what we know. We know the injury
that he has done to ourselves. We know that because
our father — because our father . . . (Mrs. Betts now has
her face in her handkerchief; James is for a moment stopped
but stiffens himself) because our father robbed the clients
of the branch of which he was manager in order to keep the
women whom he had bought . . .

john. You . . .

[James raises his hand.

james. I will end where I have begun. ... It is true that
he was revered as an upright gentleman, that he gave large
sums in charity, that he did much good for the poor of
this district, that he did this, that, and the other thing
which kept him conspicuous as a righteous man. . . .
We know that he was an excellent man of business and that
the directors gave him the opportunity to escape. . . .
There is that to his credit that he had the courage to face
the consequences of his actions. . . . But even in that
he had no thought for us, to whom rather than to himself
his thoughts should have turned. . . . We know only
too well the shame and disgrace of the arrest, the infamous
revelations, the position irretrievably lost. . . . We

238 JAMES AND JOHN

know — you and I, John — we know the ruin that it has
been to us. . . . We have seen other men of our own
age fulfill their lives . . .

john. Will you cease?

james. We know that we have been chained here, you and
I, to rot and rot . . . men wasted . . . without pride
of home or pride of work. . . . We have sat here year
in, year out, waiting, waiting . . . for nothing . . .
knowing that nothing could ever come to us. . . .

MRS. BETTS. O-O-oh. . . .

james. We have suffered enough, I say, and if now that he
has served his punishment and is free we take him under
our roof again, to live here in this town, with us whom he
has so — has so — so wrecked, in this town where he is still
infamous . . . then that which is only now whispered of
of us will be common talk. . . . We shall be lower than
we have ever been and lose all that we have. . . . That
is all.

[He takes a pipe from his pocket, fills it vnth tobacco, lights
it, and stalks out of the room. Mrs. Belts sobs quietly for a
little.

mrs. betts. John, dear — John . . .

john (without moving). Yes, mother?

mrs. betts. He was never a bad man.

john. No . . . mother.

mrs. betts. It must have been bitter for Jamie . . .

john. Yes, mother, it has not been . . . easy.

mrs. betts. He was always a kind man . . . always.
... I don't understand — I never shall understand what
made him do . . . do . . . what he did. . . . He
... he used to be so fond of children. . . . You don't
think hardly of him, John? . . .

john. Not — not for a long time now, mother.

mrs. betts. I never shall understand what made him to
. . . because — because he — he never really turned from
me ... I should have known if — if he had done that.
. . . Do you understand, John?

JAMES AND JOHN 239

JOHN. I am trying, mother

MRS. betts. He was sometimes impatient with me . . .
and . . . and I was a foolish woman. . . . Such a clever
man he was. . . . But he never turned from me . . .

jonN. No

mrs. betts. I remember now . . . often . . . when he
told me. . . . How kind he was . . . and gentle. . . .
He had been ill and worried for a long time, and then one
day he came home and sat without a word all through the
evening. ... It was raining then. . . . About ten
o'clock . . . {John is sitting with his head in his hands
on the sofa between the fire and the window) about ten o'clock
... he came and kissed me, and told me to go to bed.
Then he went out. ... I do not know where he went,
but he came back wet through, covered with mud, and his
coat was all torn. ... I was awake when he came back,
but he spoke no word to me. . . . He came to bed and
lay trembling and cold. ... I took his hand. . . .
He shook and he was very cold. . . . He — he turned to
me like a child and sobbed, sobbed. . . . Then, dear,
he told me what he had done. . . . He told me that
. . . that he had tried — tried to do away with himself
. . . and — and could not. . . . He never asked me to
forgive him. . . . He told me how the directors had
asked him to go away to avoid prosecution. . . . He
said that he must bear his punishment. . . . He is not
a bad man, John. . . . Men and women are such strange
creatures . . . there is never any knowing what they
will do . . .

john. You want him to come back, mother?

mrs. betts. Why, yes. . . . Where else should he go? . . .

john. You know, mother . . . Jamie wanted to be mar-
ried . . .

mrs. betts. Oh ! yes — yes — yes. . . . Poor boy. . . .

john. We're men. It has been a long time. We're old
men . . . now . . .
[John mends the fire and takes his whisky and soda.

240 JAMES AND JOHN

mrs. betts. John, dear . . . {John turns from poking the
-fire) I would like him to have his old chair that he used
to sit in . . . and his old slippers . . . and there's
an old pipe that he had — in my room . . . you know . . .

john. Very well. . . .

[John goes out. Mrs. Betts sniffs and dries her eyes. She
takes up her book, reads it for a little, then lays it down, takes
her knitting, plies her needles for a little, then lays that down.
She fixes her spectacles and looks anxiously at the clock on
the mantelpiece. It has an aggressively loud tick. Then she
looks towards the window and, rising slowly to her feet, shuffles
across, and looks out. James returns and finds her there.

james (sternly). I think you should sit quietly and calm
yourself.

mrs. betts (meekly). Yes, Jamie.
[She shuffles back to her chair.

james. Would you like me to read to you?

MRS. betts. Please, Jamie.

[James goes to tlie little dwarf bookcase in the recess by the
fireplace and takes down a book. He moves the table with
the backgammon board, and draws up his chair to the right
side of the fireplace, and then sits so as to have the light of
the lamp on his book.

james (reading — "Pickwick " Chap, xxxii). "There is a re-
pose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a
gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good
many houses to let in the street; "

mrs. betts. Like our street.

james. "It is a by -street and its dulness is soothing. A
house in Lant Street would not come within the denomina-
tion of a first-rate residence, in the strict acceptation of
the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If
a man wished to abstract himself from the world — to re-
move himself from within reach of temptation — to place
himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look
out of the window — he should by all means go to Lant
Street.

JAMES AND JOHN 241

"Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire in his
first-floor front, early on the evening for which he had in-
vited Mr. Pickwick: and Mr. Ben Allen the other. The
preparations for the visitors appeared to be completed.
The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into a little
corner outside the best parlour door, the bonnet and shawl
of the landlady's servant had been removed from the
bannisters: there were not more than two pairs of pattens
on the street door mat, and a kitchen candle, with a very
long snuff, burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase
window. " Are you listening?

mrs. betts. Yes, dear.

james. "Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits
at a wine vaults in High Street and had returned home pre-
ceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of
their delivery at the wrong house. The punch was ready

made in a saucepan in the bedroom: "

[The door is thrown open and John comes staggering in with a
great chair which he places on the left side of the fireplace.
He takes a pair of red leather slippers from his pockets and
places them in front of the fire to warm. From another
pocket he produces a pipe and an old tin of tobacco and lays
them on the mantelpiece. James stops in his reading and
scowls. The old lady starts up in her seat and watches
John's movements intently. John takes not the slightest
notice of James but goes out of the room again. James opens
his mouth to speak but decides to go on reading as though
nothing had happened.

james. "Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of
all these arrangements, there was a cloud on the counte-
nance of Mr. Bob Sawyer as he sat by the fireside. There
was a sympathising expression too in the features of Mr.
Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals: and a tone
of melancholy in his voice as he said, after a long silence :
" 'Well, it is unlucky that she should have taken it into
her head to turn sour, just on this occasion. She might
at least have waited till to-morrow.' "

242 JAMES AND JOHN

[John returns with a glass, a decanter of whisky, and a jug of
water. These he places on the table by his mother's side. She
looks up at him gratefully. John, a little ostentatiously, takes
a book and sits on the sofa. James shuts "Pickwick" and
remains gazing into the fire. They sit in silence for some time.

mrs. betts. Is the clock right, John?

john (looking at his watch). A little fast. ... I told Jane
she might go to bed. I thought it better.

MRS. BETTS. Yes

[John is conscious that James is scrutinising him narrowly,
and becomes a little uneasy. He sits so that the chair he has
brought is between himself and his brother. He can see his
mother from this position. They sit again in silence for some
time.

MRS. betts. There was a funeral in the street to-day. Quite
a grand affair. . . . (Silence) There have been quite a
number of deaths in the district lately. . . . (Silence)
They go on having babies, though ... I wonder why
. . . (Silence) I suppose everything happens for the
best. . . . (Her prattle becomes intolerable to James, who
springs to his feet and walks furiously up and down the room.
He subsides finally, having scared her into silence, and they
sit mum while the aggressive clock tick-ticks, and faint noises
from the street come into the room — the sound of wheels on
cobblestones, of whistling boys, of a street-brawl. Then comes
the boom of a great distant clock striking ten) That's the
Town Hall. When you hear it so clearly as that it means
rain. . . .

[Silence again. The bell of the house is heard to tinkle.
John leaps to his feet and goes from the room. Mrs. Betts
starts up trembling and fearful. James sits bolt upright and
stern in his chair. They both turn and watch the door. John
returns alone.

john. Only the post.

james. Anything for me?

john. No; for me. . . .

[He reads his letter and throws it in the fire. James and Mrs.

JAMES AND JOHN 243

Beits subside into their former attitudes. John returns to
the sofa and takes up his book again.

mrs. betts. Who was it from, John?

john. It was nothing of any consequence.
[They relapse into silence.

james. It is past your bed-time, mother. (Mrs. Betts takes
no notice) It is past ten o'clock mother. . . .

mrs. betts. I know. . . . (They are silent again. James
falls to plucking his beard, and Mrs. Betts to watching him)
How like you are to your father, James ! . . . I suppose
that is why you could never get on together. . . .
[James winces, but ig?wres the remark.

john. I think, mother, if we agreed not to talk it would be
easier for all of us. . . .

mrs. betts. Very well, John . . . only — I — couldn't bear
the silence. . . .
[James opens "'Pickwick" again and pretends to be absorbed.

john. If you would read, Jamie . . .

james. She does not listen . . . (Mrs. Betts has caught the
sound of something outside the house. She turns and looks,
half in fear, half in eagerness, towards the window. She lifts
her hand and seems to point in that direction. The house bell
is heard again. John looks up, sees her agitation, and comes
to soothe her. He moves towards the door, and has reached it
when James shakes himself and holds up a hand) Stop!
(John turns) I will go.

john. I beg your pardon. / will go.

[He opens the door and goes out. James assumes a com-
manding attitude by the fireplace. Mrs. Betts turns and
watches the door. She hears murmurs of voices, and, rising
to her feet, begins to shuffle towards the door.

james (without looking at her; in a firm, quiet voice). Mother —
sit down. (He never takes his eyes from the door. Mrs.
Betts stands turning piteously between his command and her
instinctive inclination. TJien slowly she returns and sub-
sides into her chair, but never takes her eyes from the door.
Mrs. Betts begins to whimper) Tssh ! Tssh !

244 JAMES AND JOHN

[The door slowly opens and John comes in, grave, solemn.
He holds the door open and presently Mr. Belts comes in.
He is a big man, bid a broken and a wretched; and yet there
is a fine dignity in him. He stands by the door for some
moments, his eyes fixed on his wife. He comes towards her
slowly as though he were afraid, were not sure; that breaks in
him, and he stumbles towards her and kisses her.

betts. Wife . . .

[She breaks into a little moaning cry, fondles, and kisses his
hand. John comes and stands behind them. Mr. Betts
turns from his wife to James and holds out his hand. James
bows stiffly, and for a moment there is silence. The old an-
tagonism leaps in both.

james (with stiff dignity). You are welcome, sir. . . .
[Mr. Betts stretches to his full height and bows with a dignity
no less stiff than that of his son. James stands cold, while
the other three are grouped together. Mrs. Betts tugs at her
husband's hand.

mrs. betts. Your chair, dear . . . John brought it down
for you. . . .

[Mr. Betts moves and sits in the chair by the fireplace. James
waits for a little and then, without a word, sits in his chair.
John brings up a chair and sits between his mother and father,
nearer to his mother. They sit so in awkward silence, during
which Mr. Betts turns his eyes from one to another of his fam-
ily. James alone does not look at his father, but studiously
away from him. John turns and mixes a glass of whisky
and water for his father. This the old man takes gladly. He
is reminded that he is cold by this attention, and shivers. He
holds out a hand towards the blazing fire, then finds James
looking at it vindictively and withdraws it hastily.

john. Your slippers are there. . . . (Mr. Betts takes off
his boots and gives them to John, who takes them out of the
room) Will you . . . smoke?

mr. betts. Thank you. (He takes his old pipe and tobacco
and lights, looking at James the while. He blows out a cloud
of smoke gratefully. He thrusts oid a leg towards the fire)

JAMES AND JOHN 245

The value of tobacco is best appreciated when it is the
last you possess and there is no chance of getting more.
. . . Bismarck said that . . .

MRS. betts (who has been weeping quietly) . I think — I think
I must go to — to bed. (She rises to her feet and shuffles
slowly over to her husband. She bends over him and kisses
him and with her weak old hands pats his cheek) I — I hope
you are not wet, dear. ... It must be raining ter-
ribly. . . .

[She shuffles over to James, kisses him, and John sees her to
the door, then comes back and sits in her chair. Mr. Betts has
watched his wife with burning eyes as she moved.

mr. betts. How long? How long?

james (icily). It is six months since she was out of doors.
. . . It is almost six years since she has been well enough
to stay away from . . . from home. . . .
[Mr. Betts draws the back of his hand over his eyes.

john. Be just, James, be just.

james (in the same hard monotone). It is twelve years since
we came to this house in this melancholy street. ... In
this room she has sat, day in, day out, year in, year out.
. . . Day by day we have set out, I for the bank, John
there for his office. . . . Year by year we have known
that there was nothing to be done . . . that we must
sacrifice everything to her. . . . We have known that.
.... We have known that we could bring her nothing,
that she could bring us nothing. . . . There she sat . . .
[Mr. Betts sits with bowed head, offering no protest.

john. Be just, James, be just. . . . She has been waiting
for this day . . .

james (ignoring him). We have known that such an ex-
istence was futile . . . sterile. . . . We have all been
. . . prisoners.

john. Shame on you . . .

james. I have told you in my letter the terms on which I
bid you welcome to my house. . . . What have you to
say?

246 JAMES AND JOHN

[Mr. Belts looks at John, then to James. Their eyes meet
and for a moment they are man to man, enmity between them,
the man judging and the man being judged. A little nervous
laugh escapes from Mr. Betts. He puts up his hand to the
place where his wife kissed him and caressed his face, and his
eyes follow her slow path to the door. He shrugs, seems to
shrink. He flings up his hands.

MR. betts. Nothing. . . , There is nothing to say. . . .
We are all so ... so old . . .

[There is a silence. The clock ticks more wickedly than ever.
James and John sit with bowed heads.

john (to his father). Shall I show you your room?

mr. betts. Thank you, John.

[James rises, goes to the door, and opens it. As John and Mr.
Betts reach the door, James holds out his hand to his father.

james. Good night — father.

mr. betts. Good night, James.

[John and Mr. Betts go out. James puts out the light and
follows.

curtain

THE SNOW MAN

LAURENCE HOUSMAN

Laurence Housman is not a professional dramatist. Al-
though he has written many plays he is not to be classed
with the playwright whose business it is to supply the stage
regularly with effective pieces. Born in 1867, he has turned
his hand to poetry, fiction, translation, and the drama, while
he is well known as an illustrator and a lecturer on social
subjects. His best known plays — "Prunella", written in
collaboration with Granville Barker, and "The Chinese
Lantern" — belong to the realm of fancy; they are not only
effective plays, they are genuine literature. Of late years
Mr. Housman has written a number of one-act plays, in
verse and prose, on mythical and pseudo-historical subjects,
and some based upon modern subjects.

Laurence Housman is gifted with a fine sense of the the-
ater; as an "outsider" he still clings to the notion that a
good play need not necessarily be written in poor English.

PLAYS

Bethlehem (1902) *As Good as Gold (1916)

Prunella (1906) *The Snow Man (1916)

(In collaboration with *Bird in Hand (1916)

Granville Barker) *Nazareth (1916)

The Chinese Lantern (1908) *The Return of Alcestis
Lysistrata (1910) (1916)

*A Likely Story (1910) *Apollo in Hades (1920)

*The Lord of the Harvest *The Death of Alcestis (1920)

(1910) *The Doom of Admetus
Pains and Penalties (1911) (1920)

Alice in Ganderland (1911) *The Christmas Tree (1920)

248 THE SNOW MAN

"Bethlehem" is published by Macmillan Company, New
York; "Prunella" by Little, Brown and Company, Boston;
"The Chinese Lantern", "As Good as Gold", "A Likely
Story", "The Snow Man", "The Lord of the Harvest",
"Bird in Hand", "Nazareth", "The Return of Alcestis",
separately, by Samuel French, New York; "Apollo in Hades ",
"The Death of Alcestis", and "The Doom of Admetus" in
one volume entitled "The Wheel", by Samuel French;
"Pains and Penalties" by Sidgwick and Jackson, London;
"Lysistrata" by The Woman's Press, London; and "The
Christmas Tree" in The Drama magazine, Chicago, Decem-
ber, 1920.

Reference: Literary Supplement, New York Evening Post,
May 8, 1920.

THE SNOW MAN

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

By LAURENCE HOUSMAN

"The Snow Man" has not been professionally produced.

Characters

Joan, A peasant woman

t Her children
Matthew Mark J

Jaspar, Her husband

The Snow Man

Reprinted by permission of the author.

Caution. Amateurs and Professionals are hereby warned that "The Snow Man ",
bring fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to royalty,
and any one presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized
agent, will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to pro-
duce "The Snow Man" must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New
York City.

THE SNOW MAN

Scene. A poor peasant dwelling, barely furnished with ar-
ticles of the roughest description, a trestle-table, two benches, —
a large one serving as a window-seat, and a smaller one standing
by the hearth, — a wooden chair, a spinning wheel, a large bread
pan, a shell containing household crockery, and on the inner wall
of the ingle a few pots and pans hanging on the wall. The room
is wide and low; to the left is a deep hooded fireplace with con-
taining walls on either side of it, — to one side a bread oven, to
the other a cubby-bed with doors; opposite to the fireplace is a
door leading to the woodshed. The house door is at the back,
rather to the right; to its left a long low ivindow extends almost to
a line with the fireplace. In the right hand corner stands a
large chest. The roof is of heavy beams gray with smoke, and
between them shows an inner surface of thatch. The ivalls are
oj blue plaster marked by mildew, with patches here and there
where the plaster has peeled off. It is winter and daylight is
drawing on. Outside the world is white with snow. A
peasant-woman moves to and fro with quick dogged pace. The
pace of a hard worker tired but always pushed for time. She
takes black bread out of the oven, and puts the remainder into
the bread-pan. Then she takes doivn the garments from before
the fire, presses them with a heavy iron, and puts them away in
the chest. While crossing the room to and fro she economizes
her time, never going empty-handed. She puts milk to warm
on the fire, and gets down two small mugs from a shelf. She also
gets from the cubby-bed two night garments, and hangs them to
warm over the bench by the hearth. While she is thus engaged,
children's voices are heard outside, laughing and shouting. The
woman, absorbed in her work, pays no attention. Two small
romping figures occasionally pass the window. Presently they
begin to sing.

252 THE SNOW MAN

children. Here we have a snow man, a snow man, a snow
man!
Oh, where does he come from, and what shall be his name?
He says his name is no man, no man, no man!
And nowhere and nowhere the land from which he came.

(Now again)

Oh, why did you come here, oh, snow man, oh, snow man?
And will you now a friend be, or will you be a foe?
"Oh, whether I a friend am, or whether I'm a foeman,
It's here I mean to stay now, until I have to go ! "

(Now again)

But what should you go for, oh, snow man, oh, snow man?
And why would you leave us, when home lies at hand?
"Oh, when the sun calls me, then I can wait for no man,
But back I must go again, to my own land!"
And now we've made him, he'll have to stay,
Ha! Ha! Ha! He can't get away.

[The door bursts open, the two children run in: Matthew
Mark and Mary Ann.

Mary. Oh, mother, come and look at our snow man.

Matthew. Mother, do look at him.

mart. When we began

A-building him, we didn't ever know

How big he'd get to be — he seemed to grow

All by himself!

matthew. Mother, do look!

joan. There, there!

It's "look," "look," "look," all day!

(She speaks in a good-humored scolding tone which the chil-
dren seem not in the least afraid of. She goes and looks out)
Well, I declare,

You've done a silly thing — made 'im to stand
Right in the door ! — with no room either 'and
For folks to get by.

THE SNOW MAN 253

MATTHEW. Yah!

mary. Yah! Ah, ha! That's why.

Matthew. We didn't want to let no folk get by
To steal our muvver!

(He rubs against her)

joan. Here, and what d'yer mean

Getting yourself all wet like this? You've been
And clammed yourself, — you too. Now off you go!
Take all those things off! One can't ever know
What children will be up to next. Come here!

{Catches hold of Matthew)
Now you undress yourself.

(To Mary)
You get in there

Into the warm. Stand still, stand still, I say,
And put this round yer. Oh, so that's the way
You do when I ain't looking? All day long
You're up to mischief. Always something wrong
Soon as my back is turned. That heap o' snow
How long's that to stay there, I'd like to know?
Here, take your milk, and there's a bit o' bread
For both on yer. Don't want it? Ah, it's bed
You'd best be off to! There, put your mug down!
Now come and get into your nighty-gown.
Ah, you sweet thing! Well, kiss your mother then!
But you mind what I say — no more snow men
To-morrow !
[Crosses the room.

mary. Mother — Mother — will there be
Anyone here to-morrow? Shan't we see
Someone?

joan. See someone?

mary. I mean, won't there no

Man come with a spade and clear away the snow?
Last year one come.

joan. That was your father, — he

Haven't been near since, and where he be

254 THE SNOW MAN

God alone knows. Here! Don't fill your 'ead

With silly fancies! You get on to bed.

[She goes out into the woodshed.
matthew. Say ! Say ! She's gone ! come along, Mary Ann

And have another look at our snow man.
(They run across to the window)

Snow man! Snow man!
mary. It's no good, he don't hear, he's gone to sleep.

(Re-enter Joan)
joan. Ah, what are you up to there? Back you go, quick.

Or else you'll get the rod! (They skip back to the fireplace)

Now you kneel down and say your prayers. "Pray

God"

[The two children kneel at bench with their backs to the fire.

children. "Pray God"

joan (as she moves about folding up clothes, etc.). "Pray God

make Baba good"

children. Pray God make Baba good.
joan. "Give Baba bread."
children. Give Baba bread.

joan. " Give all the hungry food"

children. Give all the hungry food.

joan. "Peace to the dead." [Crosses herself.

children. Peace to the dead.

[Joan stands lost in reverie and speaks unconsciously by rote.
joan. "God bless" — [She turns and looks oid.
children. God bless — [They ivait to be prompted.
matthew. Say, muvver, shall we pray for the snow man

too? Shall us? Shall us?
joan (still musing). Nay, nay! You leave the snow man

out! He knows his way — he knows his way.

J brother
children. Bless mother, \

[ sister

Bring Dada home, and leave the snow man out. Amen.

[Joan stands lost in her own thoughts. The children creep

behind her toward the window.

kind friends all about,

THE SNOW MAN 255

mary. Good-night, snow man!
matthew. Good-night!

[They approach Joan.
mary. Good-night, mother!
joan. Good-night, darling!
matthew. Night, mother.
joan. Night-night, my dear, — night-night!

[Mary Ann goes and opens cubby-bed and begins to climb in.

Matthew stops outside.
matthew. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,

Guard the bed that I lie on;

Four corners to my bed,

Four angels at my head,

One to watch, and one to pray,

And two to

joan. There, you get in! you've prayed enough to-night.

[She goes to close doors.
mary. Don't shut it up yet, mother, leave a light.
joan. Just you be quiet. Be thankful you lie warm,

There's some as won't to-night. I can hear storm

A-coming on.

[She leaves door of cubby-bed half open.
matthew. Sing, mother, will ye sing?
joan (putting away the bread and the milk-mugs and folding

up the strewn garments; starts to sing in a dull toneless voice

with little tune).

There comes a man to a maid, and said,

All in a year and a day

"So thou be mine now let us be wed

Out of the world and away."

Said the maid to the man, "If I thee wed

Out of the world and away,
Bide 'e at home, and find me bread

Just for a year and a day."

256 THE SNOW MAN

They hadn't been wed, the maid and the man,

For a year, for a year and a day,
Before a want in his heart began,

To be out to the world and away.

"Oh, wife, there's come a call to my blood,

To be out in the world and away,
By road and river, by field and flood,

Just for a year and a day."

Out and away to the world he went,

By road and river and sea.
Oh, man of the road, is your heart content?

Will 'e never come back to me?

(She goes and looks at the children and sees that they are
asleep)

Oh, man of the road, is your heart content?
Will 'e never come back to me?

(While she sings, the firelight dies down and the light of the

candle loses its warmth. Outside is a sound of rising wind,

and the soft lash of snow against the pane. She goes and

looks out of window)

Ah, there be storm, black blast with icy breath!

The night's gone colder now, aye cold like death,

Cold!

(She shivers — three knocks are struck on the door)

Who be there? Who is it? Whence do 'e come?

(Another knock, very faint)

Have you no word? What, are ye deaf and dumb? Or —

dead?
(Knock. The light burns blue. She opens the door. Pause.
Slowly the snow man enters and moves across the room to-
ward the bed)

No, stop! Not there, not there!

[She interposes and lays hold of him. A cold rigour seizes
Iter.

THE SNOW MAN 257

snow man. Why do you touch me?

joan. Why do you come here? Who are you? Answer!

{He again moves forward) No, you don't go there! You

shan't, you shan't come nigh of 'em.
snow man. Take care ! My touch is — cold !
joan. You think I'm feard o' that?

You think them eyes as I be looking at

Have any fear for me, or shape of dread?

Worse that what life 'ave?

{With a sort of exultation)

Why, if I were dead!

[Pause. The snow man lifts his hand and points toward

the bed. Joan sees his meaning.
snow man. If you were dead?
joan. No, no, I say you lie!

My little 'uns? God wouldn't let 'em die.

'A wouldn't have the heart, 'a wouldn't have the heart.
snow man. Yet there's a heart,
Now quick to beat,

Which, this same night,
Must lose its heat.

To give strength to a lame man's feet.
joan. A lame man?
snow man. Gray-headed, bent,

He scarce can go,

His strength is spent

In drifts of snow,

And all the icy blasts that blow.
joan. I don't know who you mean.
snow man. Give me your hand,

And you shall see,

Here, close at hand, snow-bound goes he.

Give me your hand,

And come with me.
joan. With you? Why do you think I'd come with you?

I've got my children, I've a husband, too,

One as I love.

258 THE SNOW MAN

snow man. And he — does he love you ?
joan. That's no concern o' yo urn!

Aye, a' did once, Aye! and a' will again,

Some day, perhaps. When he first married me,

'A did, — 'a did ! We've sat here in this room

A-kissing by the hour! That were before

The children come. Children do make a house

No comfort to a man. He had his right

To go. He didn't want 'em, but I did!

I did!

Aye! and I've 'ad 'em now a whole seven years,

Worked for 'em, I lived for 'em, starved for 'em,

And I'd die

So it could better 'em.
snow man. And what — for him?
joan. I've broke my 'eart for 'im; it's past its work,

And now it ain't no use — no use — to 'im.
snow man. Its use has come. Oh, woman, give

Your heart to me, I'll make it live.

And what you lend he shall receive.
joan. You can't. You can't do that

You can't raise up the sun when once it's set;

You can't put new roots in us, when we're old,

Dried up, and withered.
snow man. Within kind earth

Dry seed goes sown

And springs again to birth.
joan. I've 'ad enough of earth. I've sowed, I've reaped,

I've gathered, and I've strawed. But me and 'im

We won't meet any more. He 'aven't come,

Nigh me — not for a year.

And when he did come back — he went again

Next day.
snow man. Went? Where?
joan. Nowhere. He roves about. Seeing the world, 'e

calls it. Roving blood. That's been 'is curse; and mind,

'is roving blood, it haven't always roved. He liked his

THE SNOW MAN 259

ease, he liked the victuals I give him well enough, he liked
his fireside, and he liked his bed when I was by 'im. Ah!
And then one day he'd 'ad enough of comfort, and was
off, — looking for what? 'Ardship? He might have 'ad
that 'ere if he'd but stayed. Aye, that 'e could — for it's
been 'ard enough — with they two there. Ah, you may
look at 'em, they 'aven't known trouble — yet they was with
me all the time. Why, there' ve been days when I've not
'ad enough to eat myself. And what 'ave fed me? Just
to 'ear 'em laugh and think they 'aven't known. What do
you look at me like that for? What do you know? What
did you come for? Say!

snow man. To bring you comfort.

joan. Comfort? I've got no place for comfort in me now.
It isn't that I want — it's rest.

snow man. 'Tis rest I bring.

joan. Where's 'e?

snowman. Here — near at hand. Come, come and do not
be afraid.
[He takes her hand.

joan. Oh, dearie me. This feels like death. Like death!
[As they touch hands a mist draws over the stage, the walls of
the house seem to fade away, the sound of the storm grows loud
around them. They stand in a white world full of obscure
movement and pale drifting forms.

snow man. W T hat do you see?

joan. A waste of snow.

snow man. Anyone there?

joan. No one I know. No — only you. What? You say
you saw him on the road, coming? How do you know
that it was 'im? Yes — yes — 'e was like that. But

younger, 'andsomer than that, — not lame

No, he was never lame — a young, young man,

And strong!

Oh, lost his way? You say 'e'd lost his way?
Well, maybe that might tire 'im just a bit,
But oh, e'd find it! Oh, trust him for that!

260 THE SNOW MAN

He's been all round the world — and lost his way
Through coming 'ome. Yes, yes, he's coming 'ome.
Ah! Now I see 'im. Yes, I'm 'ere, I'm 'ere!
Waiting for yer, — waiting — expecting yer.
Ah, never mind. Though yer don't love me, still
It's back to me you come ! Yer can't 'elp that
That's 'ow God made yer. That's why He made me.
No ! I can't reach yer. No, he's got my hand,
Holding it, holding it, — and won't leave go!
I'd 'elp yer, if I could. I'd die for yer!
But he won't let me go.

I'm cold, I'm cold!

Can't see! — I've lost my way,
And I shan't — never — any more come home!
[The snow man looses her hand, and she falls. The mist
clears from a dark stage, the walls close in again, the chamber
remains in darkness. A figure stumbles past the window,
the door is thrown open, the Snow man stands aside. Enter
J as par.
jaspar. Home! Home, at last! Who's there? Anyone
there?
What? Nobody? No fire? Oh, bitter cold it feels

(Fumbles for match-box)

Here, fool, give me a light!

Light, can't yer? Ah, what's that, what's that, what's

that?

Who are yer? What for are you lying there?

Get up! Get up! What makes 'e be so cold?

So clammed? /0 , ., .. 7 , N

{Strikes a light)

What the — ! My wife! It be my wife!

Wife! Don't 'e hear me? It be I, come back,

Jaspar come back — Jaspar come home again

Jaspar — why don't 'e answer? There, now there!

Have that to warm yer. Oh, ye'll soon come round,

Ye've starved yourself, ye — ! Ah — she's dead, she's dead !

(He lifts her onto the chair by the hearth and now holds the

THE SNOW MAN 261

candle to her face, then draws away with a growing fear of
what other deaths may be there. He advances to the crib,
and looks in on the sleeping children. He assures himself
that they are alive. It startles him to fresh hope; he turns
back to his wife)

No, she ain't dead, she can't be, they're alive!
She wouldn't leave 'em. No, she can't be dead.
Wife, do 'e hear? The children be alive.

You wouldn't go and leave 'em, no, not you

'T wouldn't be like yer. There, my — there, come, come!
Take warmth o' me, — out of my 'eart and soul !
I'll make ye warm.

{He takes her to his heart)
Why, I was coming 'once.
I'd 'a been yere before, but I lost my way,
Got buried in the snow. Then I 'eard you
A-callin' me ! I thought I saw your face,
Then it all went, and then, my feet grew strong,
Life come to me, and warmth, and here I be !
Can't 'e speak to me? Be ye gone so far
As 'e can't 'ear me? Not the word I'd say
To tell 'e how I loved 'e?
Ah, now I be in 'ell, I be in 'ell!
And 'a won't never know.

{Her hand falls out across chair, pointing toward the crib)
What's that to say?
Oh, the dear hand. Yes, I'll look after 'em.

They shan't know want — and I won't go away

The way I'd wish to go. I'll bear my life
And all the burden of it. There, there, my lass,
Rest ye in peace, I'll do my best by 'em!
I'll do my best.

[He bends and kisses her on the lips. The Snow man makes
a pass toward her with his hand. She moves, and opens her
eyes, all dazed and dreaming.
joan. W 7 ho's that, who's that got hold o' me? Let go! I
must go to 'im.

262 THE SNOW MAN

jaspar. No, no, bide 'e still. Here's Jaspar!

joan. Jaspar!

jaspar. Oh, you be alive !

[He sinks down broken, with his head on her breast. She
takes his head in her hands stroking it softly. The Snow man
moves slowly to the door, fades through it, and disappears.

joan. So you've come back, I knew you'd come — some
day. What's this?
[She touches the coat.

jaspar. My coat. I found you lyin' there cold, so I put it
around yer. But you made no sign — until I thought as
yer was dead.

joan. Dead? Would I leave 'em? Leave my little 'uns?

jaspar. Ah, there you do get home. It's a true charge.
It's what I done.

joan. You 'ad the roving blood. You couldn't 'elp it.

jaspar. It ain't brought me no joy.

joan. Jaspar, I think you've come here in a dream
Put your arms round me and 'old me. Don't let go.
Help me to dream, I'd like for it to last
Just one more hour — put your 'ead on my heart.
And don't you speak — don't speak — I want to dream,
You be come back again! I want to dream.
[They lie still in each other's arms. Dawn light begins to
creep in. A sound of sliding snow is heard on the roof, a
sharp twittering of birds; down across the window masses of
snowfall in soft thunder. There follows a sound of dropping
water: the thaw has begun. The outer world grows radiant
with light. The doors of the cubby-bed fly open, the two chil-
dren peep out. A soft but heavy crash of falling snow is
heard. It strikes the door.

mart. Mother, what's that? Get up, get up, it's light!
(Jumps out of bed, followed by Matthew) Oh, come and
look! The snow's all falling — right down off the roof.
Look how it's letting go !

matthew. Oh, the snow man. Look at the snow man!
Oh ! [Opens door.

THE SNOW MAN 263

mary. Mother, the snow man's tumbled in the night.

[Joan opens her eyes.
joan. Hush, hush, don't wake 'im. Come 'e and look 'ere.

[The children approach softly, curious and surprised.
mary. Who is it, mother?
joan. The snow man, my dear. He's come to stay.

CURTAIN

FANCY FREE

STANLEY HOUGHTON

William Stanley Houghton was born at Ashton-upon-
Mersey in 1881. At the age of sixteen he entered his
father's law office in Manchester, where he worked until
1912. That year he witnessed the successful production of
his "Hindle Wakes", a play which was later performed in
London and throughout the United States. From 1912
until the end of his short life, he devoted all his time to
the writing of plays. Early in 1913 he went to Paris, fell
ill, recovered, and returned to London in June of the
same year. He soon left England once again, on his way
to Venice. From Italy, after an attack of influenza and
appendicitis, he was brought to Manchester, where he died
in December.

At the time of his death, Stanley Houghton was perhaps
the best known dramatist of the so-called "Manchester
School." "Hindle Wakes" is without doubt his best play,
but in his short dramas and comedies he attempted —
and in the best of them successfully — to portray with
exactitude and sympathy the characters of his native
Lancashire.

The one-act plays were, fortunately, not intended merely
as curtain raisers: they were written as independent works,
and not in order to amuse the pit before the stalls are filled.
The Manchester dramatists were encouraged to develop the
one-act form, not to regard it as a convenient repository
for material otherwise not suitable for use.

266 FANCY FREE

PLAYS

*The Dear Departed (1908) *The Fifth Commandment

Independent Means (1909) (1913)

*The Master of the House Trust the People (1913)

(1910) *The Old Testament and the

The Younger Generation New (1914)

(1910) Partners (1914)

*Fancy Free (1911) Marriages in the Making

Hindle Wakes (1912) (1914)

*Pearls (1912) The Hillarys (1915)

*Phipps (1912) (In collaboration with

The Perfect Cure (1913) Harold Brighouse)

Ginger (1913)

"The Dear Departed", "The Master of the House",
"Fancy Free", "Phipps", and "The Fifth Commandment"
are published as "Five One- Act Plays", by Samuel French,
New York; "Independent Means", "The Younger Genera-
tion", and "Hindle Wakes", separately, by the same; all
the plays, except "Trust the People", "Ginger", "Pearls",
and "The Hillarys ", are included in "The Works of Stanley
Houghton", 3 volumes, Constable and Company, London.

References: Harold Brighouse, Introduction to "The
Works of Stanley Houghton", Constable and Company,
London; Gerald Cumberland, "Set Down in Malice", Bren-
tano's, New York.

Magazines: The Bookman, vol. xxxvi, p. 641, New York;
Manchester Playgoer, vol. xi, No. 1; Manchester Quarterly,
vol. xxxiii, p. 213; The Living Age, vol. cclxxx, p. 413, Boston;
McClure's, vol. xl, p. 69, New York.

FANCY FREE

By STANLEY HOUGHTON

"Fancy Free" was first produced at London in 1912.

Characters

Fancy
Alfred
Ethelbert
Delia

The Scene represents the writing-room of the Hotel Cos-
mopolitan, Baby Ion -on-Sea.

Reprinted from "Five One-Act Plays", by permission of Samuel French, Pub-
lisher, New York. . .

"All inquiries respecting the performance of any play contained in this volume
must be addressed to Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, U. S. A.

FANCY FREE

The writing-room of the Hotel Cosmopolitan is a tall, hand-
some apartment, exquisitely furnished. The great fireplace faces
the spectator, with a lounge chair on each side. Near him, on
his left, is a double writing-table containing two desks opposite
one another. Chairs face each desk. Still further left is a
settee against the wall. On his right a settee placed at right
angles to the wall, a small low table, and a low padded armchair.
There is another writing-table on the right of the fireplace, and
a book-case on the left. The two entrances, each with double
doors, are set diagonally across the two visible corners of the
room, one right and one left.

The fire is burning, and the electric lights are on. It is a
little after ten o'clock.

Fancy, in an evening gown, is sitting on the right hand of
the double desk, trying to compose a letter. She is petite, dark
and pretty. Alfred comes in from the left in evening dress. He
is tall, fair, clean-shaven and handsome.
fancy {looking up). Well?
Alfred. I find that the last post goes at midnight. It is

now exactly a quarter-past ten.
fancy. Then I have still an hour and three-quarters in

which to finish the letter.

[Alfred kneels on the chair on the other side of the double desk

and watches Fancy.
Alfred. I am disappointed in you, Fancy. I knew that

I should be disappointed in you some day, but I did not

expect it to come so soon.
fancy. My dear Alfred, pray do not forget that this is no

ordinary letter.
Alfred. It ought not to be so difficult to tell one's husband

that one has run away from him.

270 FANCY FREE

fancy. But I have had so little experience. I daresay I

shall improve with practice.
Alfred. How far have you got?

fancy. I'll read it to you. "Darling Ethelbert "

Alfred. Stop! Ought you to call him darling now?
fancy. Why not?

Alfred. A sensitive mind might detect something inappro-
priate in the adjective.
fancy. I always call him darling when I write to him. I
feel sure he would feel hurt if I omitted to do so on this
occasion. Besides, I am still very fond of him.
Alfred. Perhaps you are right. We cannot too scrupu-
lously avoid wounding him.
fancy {reading). "Darling Ethelbert,

"You will be interested to hear that since you went to
Scotland on Thursday last I have decided to run away
with Alfred. You cannot have forgotten the promises
we made each other on our wedding-day. I am not re-
ferring to those we made publicly during the marriage
ceremony, but to our private understanding that each
should be entirely free and untrammelled provided that
the other's health and comfort was not interfered with.
You will understand, therefore, that in leaving you and
going away with Alfred I am doing nothing that is con-
trary to our agreement. You would have been entitled
to complain only if I had insisted on bringing Alfred
home with me."
That's logic, isn't it?
Alfred. Yes. Feminine logic.
fancy. That is all Ethelbert has any right to expect from

me.
Alfred. How do you proceed?
fancy. I don't. That is the difficulty.
Alfred. At any rate, Fancy, you have made it clear to
Ethelbert that you have left him. That is all that is
essential. You have only to wind up now.
fancy. How? "Yours faithfully"?

FANCY FREE 271

Alfred. Why not "Yours formerly"?

fancy. But I am afraid that is too abrupt. Ethelbert is
so sensitive. I should like to wind up with something
kind.

Alfred. Let me see. "You will be glad to hear that we
are having an awfully jolly time here."

fancy. I doubt whether Ethelbert would be glad to hear it.

Alfred. Then something chatty or discursive. "The Cos-
mopolitan is an exceedingly nice hotel. It contains no
fewer than 250 bedrooms, each elaborately furnished with
all modern conveniences."

fancy. Ethelbert will hardly care for such details. Besides,
I do not consider that the Cosmopolitan is such a nice
hotel.

Alfred. It is an exceedingly expensive one. Let us en-
deavour to extract as much enjoyment out of it as possible.

fancy. I am sure that I should have preferred the Grand
Rendevous.

Alfred. The Grand Rendevous is, if possible, still more ex-
pensive.

fancy. What does that matter?

Alfred. To you, little or nothing. It is I who have to pay
the bill.

fancy. Alfred, you have the soul of a stockbroker.

Alfred. Do not flatter me. I have sometimes hoped I had.

fancy. If I had realized how useless you would be in an
emergency, I doubt whether I should have run away with
you.

Alfred. My dear Fancy, I did not run away with you in
order to conduct your correspondence. You should have
advertised for a private secretary. I had hoped to be
something more to you than that.

fancy (rising). I shall go to my room. It is quite impos-
sible for me to finish this letter here.

Alfred. W r hy?

fancy. This room is far too crowded.

Alfred. This is not a quarrel, I trust, Fancy.

272 FANCY FREE

fancy. Certainly not. I hope I have too much tact to

quarrel with you on the first day of our elopement.

[Fancy goes to the door with her letter.
Alfred. When may I expect to see you again?
fancy. The last post goes at midnight.

[Fancy goes out left. Hardly has she gone than Ethelbert

comes in right. He is a good-looking, dark man, in evening

dress.
alfred (thunderstruck). Ethelbert!
ethelbert. Alfred!
Alfred. My dear fellow.
ethelbert. How are you, old chap?
Alfred. What brings you here? I understood you were

travelling on business.
ethelbert. So I am. Extremely private business.
Alfred. How singular that we should meet!
ethelbert. Are you here on business too?
Alfred. Er — yes. Extremely private business also.
ethelbert. Come. Let us sit down and talk.

[He sits in the armchair right of the fire.
Alfred. With pleasure. But do not let us talk here.

ETHELBERT. Why not?

alfred. This is an exceedingly dull room.

ethelbert. It is a very charming room.

alfred. But I assure you, I have been here quite half an

hour, and nothing whatever has happened.
ethelbert. Then we can talk the more comfortably.

[Alfred sits down reluctantly.
alfred. Where were you going when you came in here?
ethelbert. I was looking for the American Bar.
alfred. Excellent ! We will go and look for it together.

[He rises.
ethelbert. Presently. There is no hurry.

[Alfred sits down.
alfred (yawning). Do you know, Ethelbert, I feel I ought

to be getting to bed.
ethelbert. Bed? Why, it is only half -past ten.

FANCY FREE 273

Alfred. I promised my mother, before she died, that

whenever practicable I would be in bed by half-past ten.
ethelbert. But I want to talk to you about Fancy.
Alfred. About Fancy! Do you think you ought to talk

to me about Fancy? The relations of a husband and wife

should be sacred, surely.
ethelbert. I want to ask your advice, Alfred. I have

begun to suspect that Fancy is growing tired of me.
Alfred (looking at his ivatch). I must positively be in bed

before half-past ten o'clock

ethelbert. Why does a woman grow tired of a man?
Alfred. Because the last post goes at midnight.
ethelbert. No. Because she prefers somebody else.
Alfred (interested). Do you suspect that Fancy is in love

with somebody else?

ETHELBERT. I do.

ALFRED. Who is he?

ethelbert. I have no idea. I wish I had.

Alfred. Don't you think you will be much happier if you
remain in ignorance?

ethelbert. Oh, I am not thinking of myself. I am think-
ing of him.

Alfred. Indeed.

ethelbert. Yes. I should like to warn him.

Alfred. To warn him?

ethelbert. I'm afraid she'll be running away with the poor
fellow.

Alfred (uneasily). Why do you call him a poor fellow?

ethelbert. Fancy is so terribly extravagant. She spends
money like water, especially when it is not her own.

Alfred (unthinkingly). Have you found that out, too?

ethelbert. Of course I've found it out, and so would you
if you had been married to her as long as I have. Can-
didly, I'm afraid Fancy will ruin the poor fellow.

Alfred. What has that to do with you?

ethelbert. I hope I am a humane person, Alfred. I would
not willingly see my worst enemy reduced to the work-

274 FANCY FREE

house, and this poor fellow may be one of my friends. I
should be intensely sorry if one of my friends ruined him-
self for the sake of my wife. I can assure you that she is
not worth it. In my experience, very few women are.

Alfred. Ethelbert, forgive me if I point out that you are
not looking at this affair in the proper way.

ethelbert. Indeed? In what way do you consider that
I ought to look at it?

Alfred. Do you mean to say that you are not indignant
at the idea of another man eloping with your wife?

ethelbert. Not in the least.

Alfred {warmly). Then you ought to be, that's all.

ethelbert. When I married Fancy we arranged to leave
each other absolutely free. I am a gentleman, Alfred;
you would not have me break my word.

Alfred. But it is quite inconceivable! You are without
any sense of moral responsibility. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself.

ethelbert. I very often am. Aren't you?

Alfred. Certainly not. I regulate my life, I am thankful
to say, by a strict rule of conduct, which I observe as
closely as possible. If I have lapses, so much the worse.
They are regrettable, but not unnatural. At any rate, I
have the immense consolation of knowing that my prin-
ciples are not lax, but that I have merely failed to adhere
to them for once in a way.

ethelbert. Believe me, Alfred, it is a mistake to have too
many principles.

Alfred. Why?

ethelbert. Because if you have too many it is quite im-
possible to stick to them all. I content myself with one
only.

Alfred. What is that?

ethelbert. Never be a hypocrite. It is an excellent maxim.
It permits you to do whatever you please, provided you
don't pretend you are not doing it. I advise you to adopt
it and to drop all your other principles.

FANCY FREE 275

Alfred. Do you insinuate that I am a hypocrite?

ETH ELBERT. Not at all.

Alfred. Then you are wrong. I am.

ETii elbert. Really? You grow more interesting every day.

Alfred. Please do not flatter me. I am conscious that I
do not deserve it. Ethelbert, your deplorable views
about morality have awakened my conscience. I must
conceal the truth from you no longer. Besides, I think
it is extremely probable that you would have found it out
in any case very shortly.

ethelbert. What do you mean?

Alfred. I knew, all the time, that Fancy was in love with
another man.

ETHELBERT. How?

Alfred. Because I am that other man.

ethelbert. You don't say so ! Permit me to offer you my

sincere condolences.
Alfred. Thank you.

[They shake hands gravely.
ethelbert. How fortunate that I should be able to warn

you before it is too late!
Alfred. Ethelbert, you must know all. It is too late. I

have already run away with your wife.
ethelbert. Already! When did it happen?
Alfred. This morning.

ethelbert. This morning? Then

Alfred. Yes. You are right. Fancy is actually in this

hotel at the present moment.
ethelbert. Upon my soul, Alfred, this is most unfriendly

of you.
Alfred. Go on. I am conscious that I merit all your re-
proaches.
ethelbert. I call it grossly indelicate to bring Fancy to

the very hotel in which I am staying.
Alfred. But, hang it all, we did not know that you were

staying here. You don't suppose we chose it for that

reason, do you? W r e thought you were in Scotland.

276 FANCY FREE

ethelbert. Ah, true. I did go to Scotland. I spoke

without reflecting. I beg your pardon, Alfred.
Alfred {politely). Not at all.

[A pause.
ethelbert. Well, and how do you get on with Fancy?
Alfred. I hardly think I am justified in venturing upon an

opinion upon such a slight acquaintance.
ethelbert. I wonder if I may presume to offer you some

advice?
Alfred. By all means.
ethelbert. If you are going to succeed in managing

Fancy, you will have to put your foot down at once.
Alfred. Put my foot down?
ethelbert. How much have you spent to-day?
Alfred. About seven hundred and fifty pounds.

ETHELBERT. I thought SO.

Alfred. Fancy bought a motor-car this afternoon.

ethelbert. She will buy another to-morrow.

Alfred. But I can't afford it. How did you succeed in

curbing her extravagance?
ethelbert. I threatened to advertise in the papers that I

should not be responsible for any debts contracted by my

wife.
Alfred. Since she is not my wife I can hardly do that,

can I?
ethelbert. You might advertise that you will not be

responsible for any debts contracted by my wife.
Alfred. Don't you think that would be a little pointed?
ethelbert. Perhaps it would.
Alfred. No, Ethelbert, there is only one way out of the

difficulty. I will resign Fancy to you.
ethelbert. Not on any account.
Alfred (rising). Yes. I cannot allow you to outbid me in

generosity. I will go and find her and bring her to you.
ethelbert (rising). For Heaven's sake, don't tell my wife

I am staying here.
Alfred. Why not?

FANCY FREE 277

ethelbert. Because I am not alone.
Alfred. Not alone?
ethelbert. Her name is Delia.
Alfred {indignantly). Ethelbert!
ethelbert. Well, Alfred?
Alfred. You shock me, gravely.

ethelbert. You are very thin-skinned. Have you al-
ready forgotten what errand brought you to this

hotel?
Alfred (with dignity). There is no reason why you should

make my lapse an excuse for your own. Have you thought

of your wife?
ethelbert. She need never know, unless you tell her.
Alfred. I thought you said that Fancy and you agreed to

leave each other entirely free.
ethelbert. We gave each other our word of honour.
Alfred. Then why do you wish to hide the truth from

her?
ethelbert. Fancy is not a gentleman. She is a woman.

She does not understand the meaning of honour.
Alfred. You are trifling. I regret to say, Ethelbert, that

I shall consider it my duty to inform your wife immediately

of the whole deplorable business.
ethelbert. So be it. Far be it from me to try and induce

you to act contrary to the dictates of your conscience.

[Fancy comes in left, with a letter.
fancy. Ethelbert!
ethelbert. Fancy!
fancy. How fortunate! I can give you this letter now.

That will save a penny stamp.
ethelbert. Thank you. I will destroy the letter.

[He tears it and throws it in the fire.
fancy. Oh, why did you do that? It took me such a long

time to write.
ethelbert. I am already aware of its contents.
fancy. You have told him, Alfred?
Alfred. Yes.

278 FANCY FREE

fancy. Then, Ethelbert, may I ask what you are doing

here? I consider it grossly indelicate of you to follow us

about like this. You wouldn't like it yourself.
Alfred. Ethelbert has not followed us. He has come here

for a reason of his own.
fancy. A reason of his own?
Alfred. Yes. How can I tell you? (A pause) Her name

is Delia.
fancy. Oh! Oh! Ethelbert, how dare you?
ethelbert. My dear Fancy, you remember what we ar-
ranged.
fancy. I don't care what we arranged. You have had

the bad taste to prefer another woman to me. I shall

never forgive you.
ethelbert. But, Fancy, listen.
fancy. I shall not listen. I don't want to hear a single

word about her. Where did you meet her?
ethelbert. She was staying at my hotel in Edinburgh.
fancy. That was no reason why you should have spoken

to her.
ethelbert. I didn't. She spoke to me. We were sitting

at adjoining tables in the Winter Garden.
fancy. She dropped a glove? A handkerchief?
ethelbert. How did you know that?
fancy. Never mind.
ethelbert. Of course I picked it up.
fancy. And what did she say to you?
ethelbert. She said, "Do you know, you've got the most

delightfully wicked eyes." That was how it began.

[Delia comes in right. She is a tall, gorgeously-dressed and

beautiful woman, with a mass of red-gold hair.
delia (in a fury). Really, Bertie, this is too bad. I've

been looking for you all over the hotel.
Alfred. This, I presume, is the lady in question.
ethelbert. My dear Delia, I am exceedingly sorry that I

have been detained, but this lady is an old acquaintance

of mine. She is, in fact, my wife.

FANCY FREE 279

delia. Indeed. (To Fancy) So you are his wife?

fancy. As it happens.

delia. I am very glad to meet you, if only to have the
opportunity of complaining about the way you have
trained your husband.

fancy. I did not train him.

delia. That is just what I complain about. Under the
circumstances I can forgive his leaving me alone in the
Lounge of a strange hotel, but his table manners are frankly
uncivilized. Do you know that he reads the morning
paper during breakfast?

fancy. He never does so at home.

delia. You must not expect to make me believe that.

fancy. But it is perfectly true. During breakfast I al-
ways read the morning paper myself.

delia. Ah, no doubt in self-defence.

fancy. Not at all.

delia. I suppose one can become inured to anything, in
time, even to Bertie's light breakfast conversation.

fancy. That shows how superficial your acquaintance with
Ethelbert is. I like his breakfast conversation because he
goes on talking without stopping. Consequently, it is not
necessary for me to pay any attention to him, and I can
read the morning paper in peace.

ethelbert. This is most unkind of you both. My light
breakfast conversation has always been much admired,
especially by ladies. (To Delia) I am sure you will
alter your opinion if you will only do me the favour,
Delia, of listening a little more carefully to-morrow
morning.

fancy. Certainly not.

ethelbert. I beg your pardon?

fancy. She will have no opportunity of listening to you
more carefully.

ETHELBERT. Why not?

fancy. Because you will breakfast with me to-morrow
morning.

280 FANCY FREE

ethelbert. Oh, very well, then perhaps you will do me the
favour of listening more carefully.

fancy. I fancy that during breakfast to-morrow you will
be fully occupied in listening to me, for once in a way. I
do not think that I shall have sufficient time to say all I
wish to say to you to-night. You have provided me with
a very fruitful topic.

ethelbert. But, my dear Fancy, I fear we can hardly pur-
sue it to-night. We both appear to have previous en-
gagements.

delia (to Ethelbert). You have no previous engagement.

ethelbert. Delia!

delia. It is cancelled.

ethelbert. You are cruel, Delia.

delia. It is your own fault. How can you expect any
self-respecting woman to put up with the treatment I have
received from you?

fancy. May I ask what further complaint you have to
make about my husband?

delia. He has no sense of decency. I consider it grossly
indelicate of him to bring me to this hotel whilst you are
stopping here. I have never been treated in such a manner
before.

fancy. I think you take a very proper view of the affair.
Ethelbert ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

delia. Good-bye, Bertie. (She holds out her hand) I shall
never listen to your light breakfast conversation again.

fancy. And good-bye, Alfred. (She holds out her hand)
My only regret is that I shall never know what your light
breakfast conversation is like.

Alfred. Don't say that, Fancy. Why shouldn't we all four
have breakfast together in the morning?

delia. No. I am sorry, but I must draw the line some-
where.

fancy. You are right. You have the most perfect taste.
I am begining to admire you immensely. Good-bye.

Delia. Good-bye.

FANCY FREE 281

fancy. Good night, Alfred.
alfred. Good night, Fancy.
fancy. Come, Ethelbert.

[She takes his arm.
ethelbert (to Delia and Alfred). Good night.

[Fancy and Ethelbert go out left. A pause.
delia (raising her eyebrows). Well?

ALFRED. Well?

delia. And what do we do now?

alfred. Would you like some supper?

delia. No, thanks. (She sits in an armchair by the fire)

You may order me some champagne if you like.
alfred. Willingly.

[Alfred rings an electric bell, and then sits facing Delia in

the other armchair. They look straight at each other for a time.
delia (at length, leaning forward). Do you know, you've

got the most delightfully wicked eyes.

curtain

(This play should be acted with the most perfect seriousness
and polish. It should not be played in a spirit of burlesque.
It shoidd be beautifully acted, beautifully costumed and beauti-
fully staged.)

LONESOME LIKE

HAROLD BRIGHOUSE

The author of "Lonesome-Like" was born in Lancashire in
1882, and was educated at tbe Manchester Grammar School.
Harold Brighouse has been closely identified with the "Man-
chester School " of drama, because some of his best known
plays are concerned with the people of his native Lancashire
and were first produced by Miss Horniman's Repertory
Company at the Gaiety Theater in Manchester. That his
work is too closely identified with this movement is re-
gretted by Mr. B. Iden Payne in his preface to "Hobson's
Choice", as it "tends to give the impression that all his
plays have a local character. Actually the sixteen plays,
long and short, which have already [1916] been performed
cover a wide range in setting and subject, and out of this
number only five have a Lancashire background, and only
six have been played by Miss Horniman's company."

Mr. Brighouse's first characteristic dramatic venture was
'The Doorway ", "little more than a dialogue between two
outcasts, a man and a woman, strangers to each other, who
meet by chance in the shelter of a factory door and find
mutual comfort in telling over their misfortunes and their
past adventures as they huddle together in the biting cold
of the small hours of a winter's morning."

The author is interested primarily in human character; in
all his plays one remembers longest the people, not the situa-
tions. His best work is found in his comedies, "Hobson's
Choice" and" Lonesome-Like" being without doubt his
most characteristic pieces.

Brighouse's technical art is exercised to the end that human
beings may be exhibited within an interesting framework,
not that the framework may be an end in itself. Says
Brighouse in his Preface to "Three Lancashire Plays": "It

284 LONESOME-LIKE

is those plays which exhibit in high degree the use of action
in the form of dialogue that are the more comfortable read-
ing; and, always postulating that a play is a play ... a
thing practicable, actable and effective on the stage — the
more physical action is subordinated to character, to the ex-
ploration of human nature, the better it is for reading pur-
poses and the better for all purposes."

PLAYS

"The Doorway (1909) The Northerners (1914)

*The Price of Coal (1909) Hobson's Choice (1915)

Dealing in Futures (1909) "Converts (1915)

Graft (1911) TheRoadtoRaebury(1915)

The Polygon (1911) "Followers (1915)

*Lonesome-Like (1911) The Hillarys (1915)

*The Oak Settle (1911) (In collaboration with

*SpringinBloomsbury(1911) Stanley Houghton)

*The Scaring-Off of Teddy Zack (1916)

Dawson (1911) The Clock Goes Round

♦Little Red Shoes (1912) (1916)

The Odd Man Out (1912) Maid of France (1917)

The Game (1913) Other Times (1920)
Garside's Career (1914)

"The Doorway", "Dealing in Futures", "Graft", "The
Oak Settle", "The Scaring-Off of Teddy Dawson", and
"The Odd Man Out" are published separately by Samuel
French, New York; "The Game", "The Northerners", and
"Zack", in "Three Lancashire Plays", by the same; "The
Price of Coal", "Lonesome-Like", "Converts", and "Maid
of France", by Gowans and Gray, London; "Garside's
Career", by A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago; and
"Hobson's Choice", by Doubleday, Page and Company,
Garden City, Long Island.

References: Introduction to "Hobson's Choice", Double-
day, Page and Company, Garden City, Long Island.

Magazines: Manchester Quarterly, vol. 33, p. 213.

LONESOME-LIKE

A PLAY IN ONE ACT
By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE

"Lonesome-Like" was first produced at Glasgow in 1911.

Characters

Sarah Ormerod

Emma Brierly

Sam Horrocks

The Rev. Frank Alleyne

The Scene is laid in a Lancashire village.

Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Le Roy Phillips

LONESOME-LIKE

The Scene represents the interior of a cottage in a Lan-
cashire Village. Through the window at the back the grey row
of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to
the window. Door left. A s regards furniture the room is very
bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, bid a stripped
room. For example, there are several square patches where the
distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indi-
cating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an un-
covered deal table and two chairs by it near the fireplace right.
Attached to the left wall is a dresser and a plate rack above it
containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils
upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking
range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The
floor is uncarpeted. There are no windoio curtains, bid a yard
of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming,
however, high enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in
should he wish to do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered
black tin trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the
door left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned
beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises
the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens
and Sarah Ormerod, an old woman, enters carrying clumsily
in her arms a couple of pink flannelette night-dresses, folded
neatly. Her black stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-
ring is her only ornament. She icears elastic-sided boots, and
her rather short skirt shows a pair of grey icorsted stockings. A
small plaid shawl covers her shoulders. Sarah crosses and puts
the night-dresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully.
There is a knock at the outside door and she looks up.
sarah. Who's theer?
emma (without). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierly.

288 LONESOME-LIKE

sarah. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass.

[Enter Emma Brierly. She is a young weaver, and, having
just left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some in-
determinate blue-grey shade made of cotton, and a large shawl
over her head and shoulders in 'place of a jacket and hat. A
coloured cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and the
short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She
wears clogs, and the clothes — except the shawl — are covered
with ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has
not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her
waist.

sarah. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think
o' coomin' to see an ould woman like me.

emma {by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th'
mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin'
and see 'ow tha was feeling like.

sarah {crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's
only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a
weaver's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o'
'er 'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it.

emma. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought
as A can do for thee?

sarah. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.

emma {taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on
a peg in the door). Well, A knaws better. What wert
doin' when A coom in? Packin' yon box?

sarah. Aye. Tha sees theer 's a two three things as A
canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw
if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna
have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff.

emma {crosses below Sarah to box, and kneels) . Let me help yo.

sarah. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee.

emma. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as
they'd carry safe that road.

sarah. A know. It's my 'ands tha sees, as mak's it diffi-
cult for me.
[Sits on chair left centre.

LONESOME-LIKE 289

emma. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter.

[Lifts all out. Burying her arms in the box and rearranging

its contents.
sarah. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll

not weave by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows.
emma (looking round). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's

stopped. It's Saturday afternoon.
sarah. So 'tis. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th'

week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do.
EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about

me. Tha's got trouble enough of thy own.

[Resuming at the box.
sarah. Aye, th'art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us

likes to think o' going to workus when we're ould.
emma. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin'

to see thee.
sarah. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes

'e'll do summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them

folks can do.
emma (kneeling up). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Or-

merod. That's what my moother says to me when A

tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop,

she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she

says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says.

It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands

going paralytic.

[She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking.
sarah. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game

enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd

'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never

was a savin' sort.
emma. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's some as

can be careful o' theer brass an' some as can't. It's not

a virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says.

[Resumes packing.
sarah. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o'

savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took

290 LONESOME-LIKE

an' died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral
an' is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e
warn't buried proper.

emma. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod.

sarah. Aye.

emma. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a
better, an' A goes to all as A can. (Rises) A dotes on
buryin's. Are these the next?

[Crosses centre before table for night-dresses. Takes the night-
dresses, and resumes 'packing.

sarah. Aye. (Emma puts them in and rests on her knees
listening to Sarah's next speech. Pause) A've been a
'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, an A've took
pride in 'aving my bits o' sticks as good as another's.
Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer,
she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though
A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a
decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our full
week's 'ollydain' at Blackpool reglar at Wakes time.
Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on,
an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o'
good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom
'e liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier too
in 'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away
wi' a mint o' money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no
brass to put in th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom
wages neeght.

emma. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young,
but A knaw 'ow 'tis. We works cruel 'ard in th'
mill, an', when us plays, us plays as 'ard too (pause),
an' small blame to us either. It's our own we're
spendin'.

sarah. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can
mind me many an' many's the time when tb' warnin' bell
went on th' factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's
mornin' as A've craved for another ha'f hour in my bed,
but Tom 'e got me oop an' we was never after six passin'

LONESOME-LIKE 291

through factory gates all th' years we were wed. There's
not many as can say they were never late. "Work or
Clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould bell
were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma, "Work or Clem"
is God's truth. (Emmas head in box) An' now th' time's
coom when A can't work no more. But Parson's a good
man, 'e'll mak' it all reeght. (Emma's head appears)
Eh, it were good o' thee to coom in, lass. A bit o' coom-
pany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm twice as cheer-
ful as A were.

emma. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. (Rises
from the box) Is theer owt else?

sarah. A were thinking A'd like to tak' my black silk as
A've worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think
its reeght thing for workus.

emma. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod.

sarah. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt,
nobbut what chairs an table 'ull pay for, and A doan't
like thowt o' leaving owt as A'm greatly fond of.

emma. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is
it? A'll put un in. Theer's lots o' room on top. A'll
see un's noan crushed.

sarah. It's hanging theer behind door. (Emma crosses back
to door, gets clothes) A got un out to show Parson. A
thowt A'd ask un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go.
My best bonnet's with it, an' all.

[Emma goes bcloiv table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it
on the table and packs it.

emma. A'll put un in.

sarah. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass.

emma. That's nowt, neighbours mun be neighbourly.
[Gets bonnet from table and packs it.

sarah (pause. Looking round). Place doan't look much,
an' that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and
theer ain't much left to part wi' now.

emma. Never mind, it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takken
thee oop.

292 LONESOME-LIKE

sarah. A'm hopin' so. A am hopin' so. A never could
abide th' thowt o' th' workus — me as 'as bin an 'ard workin'
woman. A couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi'
strange folk round me, an'when th' Matron said " Do that"
A'd 'ave to do it, an' when she said "Go theer" A'd 'ave
to a' gone wheer she tould me — me as 'as allays 'eld my
yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased masel'. Eh, it's a
terrible thowt, the workus.

emma (rising). Now tha's sure that's all?

sarah (pause. Considers). Eh, if A havna forgot my
neeghtcaps. (Rises, moves centre and stops) A suppose
they'll let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly
think as A'd get my rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps.

emma. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght.

sarah (as she goes). A'll go an' get un. (Exit right. Re-
turning presently with the white nightcaps) That's all now.
[Giving them to Emma, who meets her center.

emma (putting them in). Yo never 'ad no childer, did yo,
Mrs. Ormerod?

sarah. No, Emma, no — may be that's as broad as 's long.
(Sits above fire) Yo never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on
'em turn again yo when they're growed or they get wed
themselves an' forget all as yo've done for 'em, like a many
A could name, and they're allays a worrit to yo when
they're young.

emma. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod.

sarah. Are yo, now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them
graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother,
A knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin'
coompany with?

emma. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod.

sarah. 'Indie, 'Indie? What, not son to Robert 'Indie,
'im as used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to
foreign parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave?

emma. Aye, that's 'im.

sarah. Well, A dunno ought about th' lad. 'Is faither were
a fine man. A minds 'im well. But A'll tell thee this,

LONESOME-LIKE 293

Emma, an' A'll tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for

'isself is young Joe 'Indie.
Emma. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod.
sarah. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as

t'were only t'other day as tha was running about in short

frocks, an' now tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed!

Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a good lass. A've

gotten an ould tea-pot in yonder {indicating her bedroom)

as my moother give me when A was wed. A weren't for

packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A were

going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A

died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus.
emma. Tha's not gone theer yet.
sarah. Never mind that. (Slowly rises) A'm going to

give it thee, lass, for a weddin'-gift. Tha'll tak' care of it,

A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare

me a thowt.
EMMA. Oh no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it.
sarah. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me?
emma. No. Tha knaws A'm not.
sarah. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute.

Happen A'd best tidy masel' up too against Parson

cooms.
emma. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod?
sarah. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My

'ands isn't that bad. A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do

all as A need to.
emma. Well, A'll do box up.

[Crosses to table right and gets cord.
sarah. Aye.
emma. All reeght.

(Exit Sarah. A maris face appears outside at the window.

He surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks

at the door) Who's theer?
sam (without). It's me, Sam Horrocks. (Emma crosses left

and opens door) May A coom in?
emma. What dost want?

294 LONESOME-LIKE

sam (on the doorstep). A want a word wi' thee, Emma
Brierly. A followed thee oop from faetory and A've bin
waitin' out theer till A'm tired o' waitin'.

emma. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk
wi' thee at door.

[Emma lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in
the middle of the room, resumes work on her knees at the box.
Sam Horrocks is a hulking young man of a rather vacant ex-
pression. He is dressed in mechanic s blue dungarees. His
face is oily and his clothes stained. He wears boots, not
clogs. He mechanically takes a ball of oily black cotton-
waste from his right pocket when in conversational difficulties
and wipes his hands upon it. He has a red muffler round his
neck without collar, and his shock of fair hair is surmounted
by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps one-tenth of it.

sam (after watching Emma's back for a moment). Wheer's
Mrs. Ormerod?

emma (without looking up). What's that to do wi' thee?

sam (apologetically). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be
short wi' a chap.

emma. She's in scullery washin' 'er if tha wants to knaw.

sam. Oh !

emma (looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause).
Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks?

sam. Naw.

emma. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' other
side o' door.

sam (takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after trying
his right and finding the ball of waste in it). Yes, Emma.
[Emma resumes work with her back towards him and waits
for him to speak. But he is not ready yet.

emma. Well, what dost want?

sam. Nought. . . . Eh, but thou art a gradely wench.

emma. What's that to do wi' thee?

sam. Nought.

emma. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't
pass compliments behind folks' backs.

LONESOME-LIKE 295

sam. A didn't mean no 'arm.

emma. Well?

sam. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year?

emma. Aye.

sam. A very fine day.

emma. Aye.

sam (desperate). It's a damned fine day.

emma. Aye.

sam (after a moment). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma?

emma. Aye.

sam. Wert ever in it?

emma. Not sin' tha mootker died.

sam. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died.
She were a fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-
ridden.

emma. She were better than 'er son, though that's not say-
ing much neither.

sam. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were
when she were alive?

emma. Aye.

sam. A've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt
on bed from Co-op. Red un it is wi' blue stripes down 'er.

emma. Aye.

sam. Well, Emma?

emma (over her shoulder). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse
an' thy quilt to do wi' me?

sam. Oh nought. . . . Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much,
neither.

emma (rising and facing him. Sam is behind corner table and
backs a little before her). What's tha gettin' at, Sam Hor-
rocks? Tha's got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha?

sam. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though.

emma. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied
idiot, Sam Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine-
house in day-time an' sulkin' at 'ome neeght-time.

sam. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave
a way wi' 'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin

296 LONESOME-LIKE

t' same to me sin' she went. Day-time, tha knaws, A'm

all reeght. Tha sees, them engines, them an' me's pals.

They talks to me an' A understands their ways. A doan't

some'ow seem to understand the ways o' folks like as A

does th' ways o' them engines.
emma. Tha doesn't try. T'other lads goes rattin' or dog-

feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday

afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's

not likely to understand folks. Tha's not sociable.
sam. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed

at when A tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down

at th' pub wi' th' rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin'

to soop ale, A can't carry th' drink like t'others. A knaws

A've ways o' ma own.
emma. Tha has that.
sam. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o'

mine, it do want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines

is all reeght for days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like

tha wouldn't believe.
emma. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi'

me, choosehow.
sam. Naw? A'd . . . A'd 'oped as W it might 'ave,

Emma.
emma (approaching threateningly). Sam Horrocks, if tha

doan't tell me proper what tha means A'll give tha such

a slap in th' mouth.
s*am (backing before her). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma.

Just like ma moother.
emma. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into

thy silly yead.
«am (suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table).

Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th'

engine-house.
emma. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel'

so close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never

speakin' a word to nobody tha'd knaw A were keepin'

coompany wi' Joe H indie.

LONESOME-LIKE 297

sam (scrambling up), la that a fact, Emma?
emma. Of course it's a fact. Barm's 'ull be oop come Sun-
day fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just

like the great blind idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long

enough sin'.
sam. A weren't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd

'ave me, Emma.
emma (a little more softly). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam.
sam. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe

A'd best be goin'.
emma (lifts box to left). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs.

Ormerod in a minute.
sam (with pride). A knaw all about that, anyhow.
emma. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can

do much for 'er.
sam. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo'll not want

me 'ere. A'll be movin' on. (-Getting his cap out) No

offence, Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd

knawn as 'e were after thee. A've bin tryin' for long

enough.
emma. No. Theer's no offence, Sam. Tha's a good lad if

tha art a fool, an' mebbe tha's no to blame for that.

Good-bye.
sam. Good-bye, Emma. An' . . . An' A 'ope 'e'll mak'

thee 'appy. A'd dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an'

shake 'is 'and.

[Mrs. Ormerod heard off right.
emma. A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'.

Tha'd best be gettin'.
sam. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma.
emma. Good-bye, Sam.

[Exit Sam left center. Mrs. Ormerod comes from the inside

door. She has a small blue tea-pot in her hand.
sarah. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard

someun talkin', only my yearin' isn't what it used to be,

an' A warn't sure.
emma. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod.

298 LONESOME-LIKE

sarah. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im

as isn't reeght in 'is yead?
emma. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im.
sarah (incensed). In my 'ouse? Theer's imperence for

thee, an' tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave

set about 'im wi' a stick, Emma.
emma. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel

like to 'ave to tell 'im.
sarah. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass'll tak' 'im.
emma. A suppose so.
sarah (coming down, putting the tea-pot in Emma's hands).

Well, theer's tea-pot.
emma (meets Sarah right center, examining tea-pot). It's

beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod.
sarah. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak'

care on't, lass, won't thee?
emma. A will an' all.
sarah. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than

it would be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice.

A goa cold all ower at thowt of it.

[A knock at the door.
emma. That'll be Parson.
sarah (crosses left. Smoothing her hair). Goa an' look through

window first, an' see who 'tis.
emma (puts tea-pot on table. Looking through window). It's

not th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps.
sarah. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down.

It won't do to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's

not th' ould Parson.

(Emma leaves the windoio and goes to right of table. The

knock is repeated. Raising her voice) Coom in so who

tha art. Door's on latch.

[Enter the Rev. Frank Alleyne. He is a young curate, a

Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and

taste, totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is

unfortunately no exception.
alleyne. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod.

LONESOME-LIKE 299

sarah. Good day to thee.

alleyne. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a
missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you
in his stead.

sarah. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee down.

[Emma comes below table left. Dusts a chair left of table,
which doesn't need it, with her apron. Alleyne raises a depre-
catory hand. S ar all s familiarity , as it seems to him, offends
him. He looks sonrly at Emma and markedly ignores her.

alleyne. Thank you; no, I won't sit, I cannot stay long.

sarah. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me.
[Emma stays by right of table.

alleyne. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod?

sarah. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands,
and they're takkin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet,
and that's summat to be thankful for.

alleyne. Oh yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The — er — message
I am to deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led
you to hope for. His efforts on your behalf have — er —
unfortunately failed. He finds himself obliged to give up
all hope of aiding you to a livelihood. In fact — er — I un-
derstand that the arrangements made for your removal to
the workhouse this afternoon must be carried out. It
seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the
bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a com-
fortable home awaiting you, Mrs. — er — Ormerod.

sarah. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no
tellin' W you'll favour a thing till you've tried it.

alleyne. You must resign yourself to the will of providence.
The consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I
pray with you?

sarah. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off,
an' A doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A
coom cryin' to 'im now A'm 'urt.

alleyne. He will understand. Can I do nothing for
you?

sarah. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same.

300 LONESOME-LIKE

alleyne. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission
to bring a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. (Feeling in
his coat-tails and bringing out a Testament) Allow me to
present you with this Testament, and may it help you to
bear your Cross with resignation. (He hands her the Tes-
tament. Sarah does not raise her hands, and it drops on her
lap. Alleyne takes it again and puts it on the table) Ah,
yes, of course . . . your poor hands ... I understand.

sarah. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't eoom easy to me,
an' my eyes aren't what they were, but A'll mak' most
of it.

alleyne. You will never read that in vain. And now, dear
sister, I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All
will be well. Good day.

sarah. Good day to thee.
[Exit Alleyne.

emma. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Or-
merod.

sarah. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma.
'E should a coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks like 'e were
feart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads.
We doan't want no grand Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere.
'E doan't understand us no more than we understand 'im.
'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin
a Church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop
to Church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o'
me in my time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate
with a tupenny Testament. That's all th' good yo get
out o' they folks.

emma. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to
let me see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony dif-
ferent wi' chapels, neither. They get what they can outer
yo, but yo musn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch
cooms. (Clock outside strikes three) Sakes alive, theer's
clock goin' three. My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold.

sarah. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's
bin clemmin' all this time?

LONESOME-LIKE 301

emma. A coom 'ere straight from factory.
sarah. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat.
emma. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod.
sarah. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha's

no reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'.
emma (putting her shawl on). All reeght. A'm off.

[Picking up tea-pot.
sarah. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll

be 'arder to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much

for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building

wi' th' drear windows.
emma. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a

bit o' coompany. A'll ask her to coom an' fetch thee a

coop o' tea by an' bye.

[A knock at the door.
sarah. Who's theer?

sam {without). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod.
emma. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again.
sarah. Sam Horrocks! What can th' lad be after now?

(Calling) Hast tha wiped thy boots on scraper?
sam. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.
sarah. Coom in then. (Emma in left corner. Enter Sam)

Tak' thy cap off.
sam. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod.
sarah. What dost want?
sam. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by

thysel'. A'll coom again.

[Bolting nervously for the door.
sarah. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere?
sam. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private.

[Emma moves to open door.
sarah. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner.
emma (speaking through door). A'll ask my moother to step

in later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for

th' tea-pot.
sarah. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (Exit Emma with

tea-pot) Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee?

302 LONESOME-LIKE

sam {dropping the cotton waste he is fumbling with and picking
it up). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year.

sarah. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad?

sam. Naw, not exactly.

sarah. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on
thee. Art tongue-tied? Can't tha quit niawlin' yon bit
o' waste an' tell me what 'tis tha wants?

sam {desperately). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'.

sarah. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o'
my 'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy
ears. If tha's got business wi' me, tha'd best state it
sharp or A'll be showin' thee the shape o' my door.

sam. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A
am. A've not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould
moother died.

sarah. A've 'eered folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi'
'er tongue.

sam {admiringly). She were that. Rare talker she were.
She'd lie theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon cor-
ner, an' call me all th' names she could put her tongue to,
till A couldn't tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. {Still
reminiscent) Wonnerful sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she
were bed-ridden so long. She were only a little un an'
cripple an' all, but by gum she could sling it at a feller if
'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. Talk! She'd talk a
donkey's yead off, she would.

sarah {on her mettle). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an'
all if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants
after in my 'ouse, tha great mazed idiot.

sam. Eh, but she were a rare un.

sarah. The lad's daft aboot his moother.

sam {detachedly, looking at window. Pause). Wunnerful
breeght the sky is, to-day.

sarah. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to
thee if — if A'd the use o' my 'ands.

sam. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say.

sarah. Dang thy moother. An' I doan't mean no disrespect

LONESOME-LIKE 303

to 'er neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more,
poor woman.

sam. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she
were wunnerful.

sarah. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd
call thee if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o'
thee neeght an' day.

sam {eagerly). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would.

sarah. Would what?

sam. Would coom an' live along wi' me.

sarah. Tha great fool, what dost mean? Art askin' me to
wed thee?

sam. A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm
sorry A spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so
'ope as tha might coom. Tha sees A got used to moother.
A got used to 'earin' 'er cuss me. A got used to doin' for
'er and' A've nought to do in th' evenings now. It's ter-
rible lonesome in th' neeght-time. An' when notion coom
to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual.

sarah. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what
tha's sayin', or is tha foolin' me?

sam. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin'
sort. Th' lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to
them, A knaws it. A've a slate loose, A shan't never get
wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance wi' yon lass as were
'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too late. A allays
were slow. A left askin' too long an' A've missed 'er. A
gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a
young wench. They maks me go 'ot and cowld all over.
An' when curate towld me as tha was to go to workus, A
thowt A'd a chance wi' thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big
chance, because my plaice ain't much cop after what tha's
bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine fixin's nor big chairs an'
things as tha used to 'ave. Eh, but A would 'ave loved
to do for thee as A used to do for ma moother, an' when A
yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool an' th' rest,
by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. Tha'd

304 LONESOME-LIKE

fill 'er plaice wuniierful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt

thee.
sarah. To adopt me?
sam. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way

to let me. A didn't mean no offence.

[Turning to the door.
sarah. 'Ere lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might

tak' me for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done?
sam. Why kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms

whoam to thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean

sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll

pardon th' liberty o' mentioning it.
sarah. A new quilt, Sam? What's colour?
sam. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er.
sarah. A'm not a light weight, tha knows.
sam. A'd carry thee easy — "Strong in th' arm and weak in

th' yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it

fits.
sarah. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt

tha try, lad?
sam. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll

coom? Tha's not coddin' a feller, art tha?
sarah. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son.

[He kisses her and lifts her in his arms.
sam. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy

box.
sarah. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack

o' flour.
sam. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real

mootherly, it were.

[Exit through door, carrying her.

CURTAIN AT CLINK OF LATCH

MISS TASSEY

ELIZABETH BAKER

Elizabeth Baker is one of the younger English dramatists
who deals in the everyday aspects of modern life. Her
"Naturalism" — to use an overworked term — is of the un-
emphatic order; it has nothing in common with the Natural-
ism that is concerned with the "unpleasant" in and for itself.
Miss Baker, who began life as a cashier and was for some
time a professional stenographer and private secretary, has
made use of her sympathetic and acute power of observa-
tion, and put into her plays that part of life which she best
understands. Her first play, " Beastly Pride ", was produced
at the Croyden Repertory Theater in 1907. The reception
of the work encouraged Miss Baker to attempt a full-length
play. "Chains", her best-known work, was first produced
by the Play Actors, and later at the Duke of York's Theater
during Charles Frohman'g Repertory season. It was un-
necessarily adapted, and produced in New York City in 1913,
where it promptly failed. William Archer said of " Chains ",
"There is absolutely no 'story' in it, no complication of in-
cidents, not even any emotional tension worth speaking
of. . . . A city clerk, oppressed by the deadly monotony
and narrowness of his life, thinks of going to Australia — and
doesn't go: that is the sum and substance of the action.
Also, by way of underplot, a shopgirl, oppressed by the deadly
monotony and narrowness of her life, thinks of escaping it
by marrying a middle-aged widower — and doesn't do it."

A minute but sympathetic observation of everyday life is
the basis of Elizabeth Baker's success as a dramatist. In
"Miss Tassey", as in "Chains", the audience is offered the
spectacle of human aspiration and human disillusion.

306 MISS TASSEY

PLAYS

*Beastly Pride (1907) The Price of Thomas Scott
Chains (1909) (1913)

*Miss Tassey (1910) Over a Garden Wall (1915)

*Cupid in Clapham (1910) Miss Robinson (1920)
*Edith (1912)

"Chains" is published by John W. Luce and Company,
Boston; "Miss Tassey", "The Price of Thomas Scott", and
"Miss Robinson" by Sidgwick and Jackson, London.

References: William Archer, "Playmaking", Small, May-
nard and Company, Boston.

Magazines: The Bookman, vol. xxxvi, p. 640, and vol.
xxxii, p. 136, New York.

MISS TASSEY

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

By ELIZABETH BAKER

'Miss Tassey" was first produced at London in 1910.

Characters

Of Messrs. Trimmer

Miss Tassey

Miss Limerton

Miss Rose Clifton

Miss Postlewaite

Sarah Dormitory maid

Scene: Bedroom No. 65.
Between nine and ten o'clock.

Reprinted by permission of the author, and the publisher (Sidgwick and Jackson,
Ltd.)

MISS TASSEY

A dormitory at Messrs. Trimmers'. Three beds only, of the
ordinary hospital cot pattern: two side by side behind the door,
the third with its foot towards them, the head being almost hid-
den in a recess. Floor covered with brown oilcloth. Three
washhand- stands in a row on left. One dressing-table under
window right. Another at corner left. A card of rules hangs
on wall. Window is curtainless, with Venetian blinds half-
drawn. Photographs are hanging over the two beds facing —
photographs of young men. A gas-bracket with a frosted globe
in wall left.

Someone is in the bed in the corner, apparently asleep. The
Maid enters rather noisily and looks round. A voice speaks
from the bed very faintly, but only just makes a sound.
maid (familiarly). Did you speak, miss? (Listens, but there
is no reply. She goes to door. There is a faint sound
again) What is it, miss? Do you want anything? (No
answer. Impatiently she crosses over to the bed) Did you
speak?
miss tassey (faintly). Open the window, please.

[Maid, opens the window noisily, then goes out, banging the
door carelessly. Miss Tassey sinks further into the bed-
clothes. There is a long sigh, and the stage is silent for a
minute or so. Suddenly the door is flung open, and Rose
Clifton and Miss Postlewaite come in. Rose is a pretty girl
with a quantity of fair, fluffy hair, and a habit of giggling.
Miss Postlewaite is obviously older, showy, and rough-
mannered. They are both in black shop dresses, and Rose
carries a paper parcel. They are wearing heavily trimmed
hats, and Miss Postlewaite unpins hers as she comes in.
rose. Wasn't that man funny? (Catching sight of the oc-
cupied bed and dropping her voice) Oh, bother, Possie,
she's in, after all.

310 MISS TASSEY

miss postlewaite. So she is; another of her headaches.
Got a headache, Tassey? (No answer) She's off, my
dear. It's my belief she often has a headache purposely.

rose. What do you mean?

miss postlewaite. She takes drugs, my dear. Her head-
ache powders, indeed! (Goes over to Miss Tassey and lis-
tens) She's fair gone, like a nail.

rose. You don't really think she takes them when she
hasn't got a headache, do you? That's wicked.

miss postlewaite. Who says so? Let her sleep, poor old
thing! I should take opium if I were her.

rose. It is a nuisance for her to be in now. She said she
was going out.

miss postlewaite. Oh, put your dress on and let's see it.
She won't hear you. She won't hear anything till to-
morrow morning.

rose. You're sure she won't wake up?

miss postlewaite. What if she did? Who's she to say
anything?

rose. She's preachy.

miss postlewaite. She doesn't preach to you. I never
heard her.

rose. She looks it. She'd look it now if she saw me dressed
up.

miss postlewaite. Don't think about her. Think of
Percy over there. He's looking at you. You ought to be
ashamed dressing up in front of a young man.

rose (giggling). Possie, how can you! Wasn't that young
man in the shop too awful? Did you see him making eyes?

miss postlewaite. Didn't I see you! You've got to take
care, my girl, with those eyes of yours. I shall tell Percy
about you.

rose (tossing her head as she opens her parcel and displays a
pair of scarlet slippers). I don't care. I say, Possie, do
you think they'll find out to-morrow night?

miss postlewaite. No, why should they? Haven't I done
it heaps of times? I'll ruffle your bed, but mind you get

MISS TASSEY 311

back in good time. Try and come in as if you'd been for

a walk in the gardens.
rose. I was so awfully frightened last time for fear I'd be

caught.
miss postlewaite. Walk in offhand and say good-morning

to Miss Mason if you meet her. {Laughing noisily) Talk

about the weather. Oh, you don't know half how to

manage it!
rose. It was the first time I'd slept out. I should get such

a wigging if they found out at home.
miss postlewaite. Well, if you're found out, serve you

right. It's easy enough. It's worth a risk, anyway,

ain't it?
rose. Rather. Think, Possie, this time to-morrow night.

(Stops suddenly, as there is a sigh from the corner bed) Did

you hear? She'd tell.
miss postlewaite. What an infant you are! (Goes over to

bed) It's nothing, I tell you. She's far away on blue

mountains now. Besides, she wouldn't tell if she did know.
rose. I believe she would. She thinks I'm too young to

go out with Percy like this. She told me so.
miss postlewaite. What does she know about it? She

never went out with a fellow in her life, I'll swear.
rose (giggling). Fancy Miss Tassey (lowering her voice) at

a dance! Can't you see her? Oh my!

[She goes to a drawer and is about to pick out a dress, when

the door opens and the Maid comes in.
miss postlewaite. I didn't hear you knock, Sarah.
sarah. Well, miss, I did. Miss Clifton, you've been sleep-
ing out without a permit.
rose (taken completely back, stammeritig) . I — er — what do

you mean?
sarah. You slept out on Tuesday night without a permit.
miss postlewaite. Who's been telling tales like that to you?
sarah. Never mind how I know. You did, Miss Clifton,

didn't you?
rose. Sarah, don't be cross, and let me off this time.

312 MISS TASSEY

Sarah. It's against the rules, miss, and that you know;

and you'd better not start that sort of thing. I must re-
port you.
rose. Miss Tassey told you.
sarah. Never mind about that. You can't take me in in

this house. I shall report to Mr. Frederick to-morrow

morning.

[Goes.
miss postlewaite (laughing softly). Never take her in in

this house ! Oh , my word !
rose. You didn't say anything for me, Possie.
miss postlewaite. What could I say, you chicken? You

gave it away with your baby face.
rose. What could I say, when she asked me out straight?
miss postlewaite. Lots. You're only a young bird yet.
rose. But I couldn't have told a — a — could I, Possie?
miss postlewaite. My dear, you'll never get much fun in

life if you go on like that.
rose. But — a lie, Possie. Why, you wouldn't tell — one

(looks toivards corner bed, whispering) — you wouldn't your-
self, would you? Something would happen to me if I did.
miss postlewaite. Then you're not going out with Percy

to-morrow night?
rose. Oh, I must. Why shouldn't I?
miss postlewaite. Are you going to ask Mr. Frederick for

a permit when you go to him to-morrow?
rose. Oh, Possie, I'd forgotten that; and the dance doesn't

begin till nearly ten, and I have to be back by eleven.

What shall I do?
miss postlewaite. You can't do anything except stay

here.
rose. I won't stay here; I will go. It's all the fault of that

(lowering her voice) Miss Tassey. She's a preachy old cat.

Why doesn't she go into some other room? We don't

want her here.
miss postlewaite (looking towards bed). She's never split

on me.

MISS TASSEY 313

rose. No, she wouldn't on you. It's me she's afraid of.

She says I'm young. It isn't her business if I am. I can

take care of myself. I wish we hadn't got an old thing

like her in our room.
miss postlewaite (laughing). I don't suppose she finds it

beer and skittles with us. She'd go pretty quick if she

got a chance.
rose. How old is she?
miss postlewaite. Oh, I don't know — something over

forty. She's getting too old for counter-work.
rose. So I think. She hobbles about the shop, and

she wears mittens. They call her "Mittens" in her

shop.
miss postlewaite. I know. She'll get the sack soon. Poor

old thing!
rose. Do you think she will? I wish she'd go.
miss postlewaite. They sacked three last week younger

than her. (Affecting jocularity) I shall have to look out,

or I shall go next.
rose (thoughtlessly). How old are you?
miss postlewaite (sharply). Never you mind. So you're

not going with Percy?
rose (after a moment's sullen pause). Yes, I shall. (De-
fiantly) I won't care for anybody. It's too bad, because

of an old woman like that, to stop my fun. I will go.

They couldn't have found out from the bed, could they?

Why didn't old Tassey have a headache to-morrow night?

That would have been useful then. (Giggles) It's just

like her to have it at the wrong time. (Takes out her dress

from the drawer and shakes it out. It is a scarlet and white

pierette's frock, very short and fluffy) Isn't it sweet?

[Turning her head to look at the corner bed, and then standing

so as to hide the frock from it.
miss postlewaite. And short. Mind you wear plenty of

petticoats.
rose. Possie!
miss postlewaite. You'll want them in the lancers.

314 MISS TASSEY

rose. Possie! (taking out scarlet gloves and white hat with
scarlet pompoms) Look! Everything to match. I do
love them.

miss postlewaite (picking up shoes). And the shoes — where
are the stockings?

rose (shaking out a pair of scarlet and white stripe stockings
with scarlet bows at top). Here!

miss postlewaite. My word ! are you going to kick as high
as that?

rose. How awful you are! Of course not; but it's the
thing to wear with it.

miss postlewaite. It's regal. What did you want me to
do with it?

rose. It's rather big here. (Touching her waist) Just take
it in for me a little, will you?

miss postlewaite. Better put it on, then, and let me see.

rose. All right. (Turns back to her bed and glances at cor-
ner) Suppose she should wake!

miss postlewaite (easily). She won't, silly. But I'll tell
you what I'll do. I'll hang my mask from the bracket
and swing it over a chair in front of her. Then, if she
wakes, we'll tell her we were afraid for the light on her eyes.
[Laughs.

rose. Yes, do. A horrid old thing she is, to go and give
me away!

[Miss Postlewaite hangs a dark cloak over the gas-bracket and
over a chair, so that it screens the corner bed. Meantime
Rose has slipped off her black dress, and is seen in petticoat
and bodice. She has been at back of stage near her bed. Miss
Postlewaite comes over to her with the dress, which she slips
on and walks over to the mirror on left.

rose. Can't see. (Crosses to right, then suddenly stops.
Gives a little scream) Possie!

miss postlewaite. What's up?

rose (pointing to black-draped corner). That! It's — it's
horrid — so — she is so quiet. I

miss postlewaite. Rubbish. (Looking curiously) It's

MISS TASSEY 315

something like a bed in a hospital, when there's going to
be an operation, isn't it?

rose. You're sure — she's asleep?

miss postlewaite (impatiently). Of course. Come, let me
do you up.

[Sta?ids behind her while she fastens her dress. Rose gives
little involuntary glances at the corner.

rose. She sleeps awfully quiet, doesn't she?

miss postlewaite {laughing gently). What do you want her
to do? Snore?

rose (refusing to smile). It's the — powders, isn't it? (Wail-
ing) I do wish she wasn't in our room !

miss postlewaite. What a baby you are ! Come over here
and put on the hat. (They cross the room, and Rose appears
to forget. She puts the hat on at a saucy angle) Wait till
Percy sees you in that ! Only don't let him crush it.

rose (embarrassed). Possie, how you talk!

miss postlewaite. Well, he might want to. Turn up your
petticoat.

rose (intently regarding herself in looking-glass). It does suit
me, doesn't it? Where are the stockings?

miss postlewaite. Here.

[Rose sits sideways to stage front, but back to the draped cor-
ner, while Miss Postlewaite kneels and puts on the stockings.

rose. Do you think old Tassey ever went to a fancy-dress
dance?

miss postlewaite. Shouldn't wonder.

rose. It doesn't seem as if she could. Do you think she
ever had a

miss postlewaite. Percy? Perhaps — most likely.

rose. She doesn't look like it.

miss postlewaite. Neither will you when you're forty-five.

rose. Forty -five — oh, what an age !

miss postlewaite. Just you make hay while the sun shines.

rose (coquettishly) . I don't want to be married yet.

miss postlewaite. My advice is, take him while you can
get him.

31G MISS TASSEY

rose. Percy isn't the only one.

miss postlewaite. There are plenty of 'em, but they don't
always ask you. Plenty of flirts in the world, and don't
you forget it. You be Mrs. Percy, Rosey, when you can.

rose (confused). Oh, Possie, I couldn't! (There is a minute
of silence while Miss Postlewaite puts on the scarlet shoes.
Rose tries to look behind her) Isn't the room quiet?

miss postlewaite. That seems to worry you. Shall we go
down to the sitting-room?

rose. I wonder why old Tassey never married?

miss postlewaite. As I've been saying to you, not to do —
she probably missed her chance.

rose (shivering). Isn't this dress low?

miss postlewaite. Not too low for Percy.

rose. Possie! You're too awful for anything. The win-
dow's open.

miss postlewaite (rising). I'll shut it.

rose (hastily). No, don't — don't make a noise. You might
wake her.

miss postlewaite. Nonsense.

[Climbs up and shids the window with a bang. Rose stands
staring at the draped corner and as Miss Postlewaite steps
down there is a distinct pause.

rose (in a whisper). You shouldn't.

miss postlewaite (also in a whisper). Don't be a little fool.
(Aloud) What on earth is wrong with you?

rose. Look and see — if she's awake.

miss postlewaite (stepping forward, but pausing). I'm not
going to do anything of the kind. Sarah has upset you,
Rosey, and no mistake. Come over here. (She drags
Rose over to left, and examines the fastening. Pulling the
dress) Can you bear it as tight as that?

rose (panting). Oh — no!

miss postlewaite. Nothing as tight as Percy will squeeze
you. How's that?

rose. That's better.

miss postlewaite (meditating). I must take it in three-

MISS TASSEY 317

quarters of an inch there, and graduate it down. That will
be all right.

rose (hesitating). What kind of powders does old Tassey
take?

miss postlewaite. There you are again! (Still at the dress
fastening) Breathe in, Rosey. Powders? Oh, I forget.
Something "ichine," or something like that.

rose. They must be very strong.

miss postlewaite. If you once take those things, you've
got to keep on doing it. They lose their power in no time.

rose. I should have thought she would have started when
you banged the window.

miss postlewaite. I didn't bang it. I shut it in the or-
dinary way. If you're as nervy as this to-morrow night
you'll frighten Percy off. Then there's another chance
gone.

rose (suddenly turning and taking Miss Postlewaite' s arm).
You don't think, do you, that Tassey (whispering) is pre-
tending, just listening to us and then

miss postlewaite. What an idea! If you don't stand still,
how can I fit the thing properly? Do keep quiet. Why
on earth should she listen? What is there to hide?

rose. About my sleeping out — I never thought of it be-
fore. That's what she's doing. Go and shake her,
Possie, and see.

miss postlewaite. You stupid, you! (Rose breaks away
from her, and steps forward towards the corner. She stops
suddenly, however, and there is silence) Go and shake her
yourself if you don't believe me. I tell you, she's dead
asleep with that stuff. I know.

rose. She — Possie. I wish

[The door opens quietly, and Miss Limerton, a tall girl
dressed for walking, comes in. Neither of them hear her.

miss limerton. Is Miss Tassey (Rose interrupts with

a scream.

miss postlewaite (turning quickly). Oh — you!

miss limerton. What's the matter with Miss Clifton?

318 MISS TASSEY

rose. You — made me jump. I didn't hear you.

miss limerton. What on earth are you decked out like

that for?
rose. It's a dress for a ball I'm going to.
miss limerton. Gay, isn't it? Not to say snippy. Is Miss

Tassey (Stops at sight of the bed in shadow) Is she ill?

miss postlewaite. Another headache.

rose. She's been taking a powder.

miss limerton. Headache? I didn't know she had one. I

saw her after shop.
miss postlewaite. Well, she's got it since. She's been in

bed hours.
rose. I don't believe she had a headache, Possie. Miss

Limerton says she hadn't. She's pretending, and she'll

tell of me.
miss postlewaite. Shut up, you little fool ! (To Miss Lim-
erton) She will have it that Tassey isn't asleep and is

listening.
miss limerton. What have you been doing, Rosey, that

you're so uncomfortable?
rose. Only — only — trying on this (looking down at her

dress).
miss limerton. I should think the sight would make

Tassey 's head good.
miss postlewaite. You can tell the truth to Limerton,

Rosey. (To Miss Limerton) She has been caught sleep-
ing out, and she thinks Tassey told. And she's going to

sleep out again to-morrow.
rose. S'sh !
miss limerton. Well, if you take that conscience to the

dance you won't enjoy yourself much. Besides, Tassey

wouldn't tell.
rose. You don't know her. She wouldn't tell of you and

Possie. She would about me.
miss limerton. See how she loves you and looks after your

morals. (They all keep involuntarily, as it were, farthest

from the corner bed) It's funny I didn't know she had a

MISS TASSEY 319

headache. When she does have them they usually come

on in the afternoon, and she can hardly walk.
miss postlewaite. She's too old for the work.
miss limerton. She went out quickly afterwards, and I

met her later as I came back from the hairdresser's.
miss postlewaite. Did you try Grigano?
miss limerton. Yes. He did it very well. Look how he's

dressed it. (She takes off her hat and displays an elaborate

coiffure) I wish I could do it like that.
miss postlewaite. That's not a difficult style. I'll come

and show you sometime, if you like.
miss limerton. Do. (Glancing towards corner) What a

difference it makes in a room if there's someone ill in it.
rose. She's always ill. The room's always quiet.
miss limerton. The headache must have come on quickly.

It's her news, of course.
miss postlewaite. What news?
miss limerton. Didn't she tell you?
miss postlewaite. Got the sack at last?
miss limerton. Yes. I wanted to see her about it. Poor

old thing!
miss postlewaite. Poor old thing! What will she do?
rose. Is she going to leave? (To Miss Limerton) Will you

come to this room?

MISS LIMERTON. I might.

miss postlewaite. Do try. Come and help me with this

child. I'm sick of her eternal Percy.

[Miss Limerton smiles at Rosey, who disregards it.
miss limerton. I wanted to ask Tassey what she will do.

She hasn't any friends (they all look towards the corner and

pause) nor relations.
miss postlewaite. Where did she go Sundays?
miss limerton. Stayed here.

miss postlewaite. Stayed here! Lively! Poor old thing!
miss limerton. What can she do? She can't have any

money.
miss postlewaite. Didn't she insure?

320 MISS TASSEY

miss limerton. I expect so, but it wouldn't keep her long.

She'll have to go into one room for a bit, and then

miss postlewaite. And then {They glance at the corner

bed) Poor old thing!
miss limerton. I wonder she wasn't tempted to take too

much.

[Stops.
miss postlewaite. She will one of these days. She'll do

it with those drugs of hers.
rose (irritably). Why don't you speak louder?
miss limerton. Are you sure she takes drugs?
miss postlewaite. Positive. I found her out one day.

She's been taking some to-night. I knew it when I

looked at her.
miss limerton (hesitating). You have been and looked?
miss postlewaite. Yes.

miss limerton. I didn't know she kept drugs in her box.
miss postlewaite. She knows all about them, too.
miss limerton. She — listen.

[Puts up her hand.
rose (terrified). What is it?
miss postlewaite. Listen to what?
miss limerton. You can't hear her breathing?

miss postlewaite. How should you

rose. I said she was putting it on. She always breathes

louder than that.

[They listen. Rose shivers, and Miss Limerton rises.
miss limerton (looking at Miss Postlewaite, who rises also).

You don't think

[They both step forward, and Miss Postlewaite goes farther

than her companion. They both pause. The room is very still.
rose (clinging close to Miss Limerton). She is asleep, isn't

she? Possie said (Miss Limerton takes no notice of

her as the two elder girls go nearer) Don't — don't — keep

away! Oh, what is it?
miss postlewaite (moving back and speaking in an angry

whisper). Shut up!

MISS TASSEY 321

rose. She's listening. I know she is.

[With an evident effort Miss Postlewaite steps behind the
draped chair. She paitses, and Miss Limerton and Rose, the
latter clinging to her companion, wait in a dead silence. Miss
Postlewaite steps forward and is hidden. Rose buries her
face and gasps hysterically. After a moment or two Miss
Postlewaite comes into the room rather quickly. Miss Limer-
ton looks at her, but no word passes. Rose looks terrified from
one to the other.

miss limerton. I'll go for Miss Mason or Sarah.

miss postlewaite (unable to stand without trembling, sits down
dizzily) . She — it all happened

rose (hysterically). What is it? Is she — what is the
matter?

miss postlewaite (shaking her arm roughly). Can't you be
quiet now? (Rose looks helplessly at her, incongruous in
her scarlet finery) Don't you understand?

rose. She wasn't asleep all the time — she wasn't — she was

— she was (Bursts into gasping sobs) And all the

while — and I was talking like that.

miss limerton (gently). Rose, come, there is nothing to fear.

rose (seizing her by the arm, unable to control herself, yet afraid
to scream too loud). I knew she heard me; I knew she did.
I said she did. She wasn't asleep. And I was wearing
this (fingering her dress), and laughing, and calling her

names, and all the while

[Trails into sobs.

miss postlewaite. Leave her with me — or I'll take her
away.

miss limerton. You go for somebody. I'll stop with her.
(Smoothing Rose's hair) Rose.
[Miss Postlewaite goes.

rose. I said how quiet it was, didn't I? I knew she
wasn't asleep, but I thought she was listening, and I said
she was going to tell tales, and all the time

miss limerton. S'sh! it didn't matter. She doesn't know
what you said.

322 MISS TASSEY

rose. Do you think she doesn't? Are you sure? She was

so quiet, and Possie and I putting on this {fingering her

dress like one distraught) and laughing, and saying she was

pretending.
miss limerton {gently taking the girl's hand). She is finished

with it now. Come and look at her, and then {Rose

draws back shuddering) She looks so restful. Come.
rose (refusing to move). No, no — no! Don't drag me

there {looking with fearfid curiosity towards the corner)

Did she take it — herself?
miss limerton. She must have taken an overdose.
rose {unheeding). She took it herself; and all the while —

and she was unhappy — and I

[Sarah, the maid, enters quickly, followed by Miss Postlewaite.

She goes over to the bed.
miss postlewaite {in low tones to Miss Limerton). Miss

Mason is out. They've gone for the doctor. [Rose, fas-
cinated, is watching the corner.
miss limerton. Come away.

[Sarah steps back, and Rose falls on her knees beside her bed,

quivering and sobbing and hiding her head. Sarah steps

back into the room and sees her.
sarah. Take her out, Miss Limerton.
rose {stretching her arms over to the bed towards Sarah). I

said she — she {she cannot say the name) told you about me.

I didn't mean it. I thought

sarah. We are not thinking about you just now. Miss

Clifton.
miss limerton. Come, Rose, Sarah understands.
rose {brokeyily to Miss Limerton, as the latter leads her out).

I didn't mean anything. I said she listened and told tales,

and all the time

[They go out.
sarah. Draw down the blind, Miss Postlewaite.

[The blind is drawn.

curtain

MAKESHIFTS

GERTRUDE ROBINS

Gertrude Robins, who died in 1917, was better known
as an actress than as a dramatist. Her plays, which must
have been the products of her leisure time, were written
to fill certain definitely felt needs. Miss Robins belongs,
at least so far as her earlier plays are concerned, to the
"Manchester School."

"As you know," declared Miss Robins (I quote from an
interview in The Era of February 1, 1913), "I lead a very
active life, and my interests range from Small Farming and
Aviation — yes, I have had two Biplane Gliders built for me
— to the Art of the Marionette. I have written several
successful one-act plays. My village comedy 'Pot-Luck'
. . . originally played by Buckinghamshire Players (a
body of local amateurs which I organized), I afterwards
produced at the Palace Theatre. . . . 'Pot-Luck' is still
successfully running in the provinces. Speaking of the prov-
inces, there is, I think, more than a grain of truth in the
adage: 'What Manchester thinks today London does to-
morrow ', for it was in Cottonopolis, at Miss Horniman's
Theatre, that my early plays were first produced. . . . My
one-act play 'Makeshifts' was presented before that clever
play 'Hindle Wakes', at the Playhouse; and in book form
it has already reached several editions ... it has now been
played over a thousand times in Great Britain, Australia,
and Canada, and is to be presented in America by Miss
Horniman's company. ... In the intervals between golf
and gardening, acting and my varied literary work, I con-
tribute to a certain London Daily articles chiefly relative to
Country Life. . . .

324 MAKESHIFTS

"A few years ago I took Honors in Modern Languages
at Oxford. My mother is German and my father Irish; and
perhaps this blend tended to induce me, at an early age, to
take life seriously. At the outset I thought I would take up
one of the learned professions, but I discovered that for a
woman to follow such a career the drawbacks of sex are
strongly defined. I ultimately decided that the theatrical
profession offered a wider and fairer scope for a woman's
activities. Hence it came about that, through the kind
offices of my good friend, Miss Lilian McCarthy, I was intro-
duced to the late Wilson Barrett, who engaged me to play
in his Repertoire Company on tour. After useful ' schooling '
in the provinces and playing lead in Wilson Barrett's last
play, ' Lucky Durham ', I joined Mr. James Welch, and
played in 'When Knights Were Bold' at Wyndham's. Sub-
sequently I played lead with Mr. Granville Barker in his
daring Anglo- Austrian 'Anatol' sketches at the Palace and
the Little Theatre. I lately played Miss Irene Vanbrugh's
part in ' Rosalind ' upon the occasion of the latter's Command
performance at Sandringham; and, now, as the heroine of
that merry and clever farce, ' Officer 666 ', at the Globe, I
have my first experience of acting in an American production.
And, after all, 'Variety is the spice of life', and the pursuit
of experience is the playwright's prerogative."

PLAYS

*Makeshifts (1908) The Home Coming (1912)
*Realities (1911) Old Jan (1912)

*Pot-Luck (1911) *Loving as We Do (1914)
*Cupid and the Mouse (1911) The Plaything (1914)

*Van Dam of Volendam *The Return (1914)

(1911) *After the Case (1914)

*The Point of View (1910) *'Ilda's Honourable (1914)
*Lancelot and the Leading

Lady (1911)

MAKESHIFTS 325

"Makeshifts" and "Realities" are published together by
T. Werner Laurie, London; "Loving as We Do ", "The Re-
turn", "After the Case", and " 'Ilda's Honourable" to-
gether, as "Loving as We Do", by the same; and "Pot-
Luck" by Samuel French, New York.

MAKESHIFTS

A LOWER MIDDLE-CLASS COMEDY

By GERTRUDE ROBINS

"Makeshifts" was first produced at Manchester in 1908.

Characters

Caroline Parker, a Suburban young woman of about 30.
Nervous mannerisms. Brown hair much frizzed. Dressed
in a mauve silk tight-fitting blouse and dark-green skirt

Dolly Parker, her younger sister, aged 28. Wearing a dark
blue dress with cheap lace collar. Inclined to brusquerie
and superficial sharpness

Mr. Thompson, the Parkers' lodger. Chemists' Assistant.
Tall, thin, and rather shy

Mr. Albert Smythe, Stockjobber's Clerk. Short, sandy-
haired. Moustache with waxed ends, shiny face. General
blatant appearance

Reprinted from "Makeshifts" and " Realities ", published by T. Werner Laurie,
London, by permission of the executors of the late Gertrude Robins.

All rights of "Makeshifts" and "Realities" are reserved.

No performance of these plays may take place until a written permission has been
obtained.

The fee for each and every amateur representation of either play is one guinea.
If both plays are performed on the same occasion the inclusive fee is one guinea and
a half.

Fees payable in advance to Miss Gertrude Robins, % T. Werner Laurie, Ltd.,
Clifford's Inn, London, E.C.

MAKESHIFTS

The Parkers' sitting-room. Large table right centre. Window
left with small table and ferns. Lace curtains, and canary in
cage. Sideboard up right with cruet-stand, biscuit-box, silver
teapot, etc. Chairs round centre table. Fireplace back left
centre with overmantel, mirror, clock and ornaments. Easy
chairs on either side of fireplace.

Caroline sewing at back of table right. Dolly reading novel-
ette by fire left.
Caroline. You didn't forget to order the soap from

Brown's, did you, Dolly?
dolly. No — I mean yes — I did order it.

[Pause.
Caroline (turning lamp up). Did you tell them we must

have it by nine?
dolly (impatient). Oh — yes. Don't worry.
Caroline. It's very well to say "Don't worry", but you
forget Mrs. Hunt's coming at eight, and there's an awful
lot of washing this time. (Pause) I shall have to get up
at half-past six to get the boiler going properly. (Pause)
Mrs. Cox called this afternoon.
dolly. Oh, what did she want?

Caroline. Nothing. Only wasted my time. (Pause) All
her pipes burst last week — quite spoilt one of her drawing-
room chairs, she says.
dolly. How exciting.

Caroline. You are grumpy to-night, Dolly.
dolly. Well, I'm tired.

Caroline. So am I, but I don't see that's any reason for
being disagreeable. (Pause) Oh, Dolly, isn't it a nuisance,
we've got to have some coal in, and the last lot aren't paid
for yet, and they're 28s. now.

330 MAKESHIFTS

dolly. Well I suppose we shall have to use the fifteen
shillings I'd saved towards a new jacket.

Caroline. I wish we needn't do that. You haven't had a
new one for three years.

dolly. What's it matter? There's no one to notice what
I wear.

Caroline. Well, perhaps you might lend it, and then I'll
give you some of Mr. Thompson's money at the end of
the week, and when Ma gets her dividend she must make
up the rest. (Pause) Well, then, will you order half a
ton to-morrow?

dolly. All right.

Caroline. Ma's been so difficult to-day, she quite tired
me out.

dolly. Anything fresh?

Caroline. Oh, I don't know. She's got some new idea
that she's being neglected, or that we don't confide in her
or something.

dolly. Well, that's better than when she gets mopey and
retrospective, and talks about her unhappy past.

Caroline. Still, Dolly, she has had a hard time of it.

dolly. Well, haven't we all, and isn't it going to be so
world without end, amen?

Caroline. I don't know, I'm sure. (Pause) Oh, Mrs.
Cox says those new people two doors off are an awfully
funny lot. (Dolly puts book in her lap and listens) They
haven't any carpets, and they don't touch butcher's
meat, and their servant actually has her meals with the
family. (Dolly laughs) Mrs. Cox thinks they must be
Socialists or Christian Scientists. There are some funny
people in the world.

dolly. Yes, aren't there? Why, I was talking to that new
teacher we've got to-day, and, my dear, if you please, she's
a Suffragette.

CAROLINE. Oh !

dolly. Of course, I didn't say what I thought of them, but
she's evidently deadly serious. It beats me how people

MAKESHIFTS 331

can make such idiots of themselves. A lot of good a vote
would be to me.

Caroline. But I think there may be something in it, you
kn