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diff --git a/2914.txt b/2914.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..78eb76a --- /dev/null +++ b/2914.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3170 @@ + + Project Gutenberg's The Mob (Third Series Plays), by John Galsworthy + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with + almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or + re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included + with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + Title: The Mob (Third Series Plays) + + Author: John Galsworthy + + Last Updated: February 10, 2009 + Release Date: September 26, 2004 [EBook #2914] + + Language: English + + Character set encoding: ASCII + + *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOB (THIRD SERIES PLAYS) *** + + + + + Produced by David Widger + + + +GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SERIES 3 + + +THE MOB + +A Play in Four Acts + + +By John Galsworthy + + + +PERSONS OF THE PLAY + + STEPHEN MORE, Member of Parliament + KATHERINE, his wife + OLIVE, their little daughter + THE DEAN OF STOUR, Katherine's uncle + GENERAL SIR JOHN JULIAN, her father + CAPTAIN HUBERT JULIAN, her brother + HELEN, his wife + EDWARD MENDIP, editor of "The Parthenon" + ALAN STEEL, More's secretary + JAMES HOME, architect | + CHARLES SHELDER, Solicitor |A deputation of More's + MARK WACE, bookseller |constituents + WILLIAM BANNING, manufacturer | + NURSE WREFORD + WREFORD (her son), Hubert's orderly + HIS SWEETHEART + THE FOOTMAN HENRY + A DOORKEEPER + SOME BLACK-COATED GENTLEMEN + A STUDENT + A GIRL + + + + + A MOB + + ACT I. The dining-room of More's town house, evening. + + ACT II. The same, morning. + + ACT III. SCENE I. An alley at the back of a suburban theatre. + SCENE II. Katherine's bedroom. + + ACT IV. The dining-room of More's house, late afternoon. + + AFTERMATH. The corner of a square, at dawn. + + + + Between ACTS I and II some days elapse. + Between ACTS II and III three months. + Between ACT III SCENE I and ACT III SCENE II no time. + Between ACTS III and IV a few hours. + Between ACTS IV and AFTERMATH an indefinite period. + + + + +ACT I + + It is half-past nine of a July evening. In a dining-room + lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, carpet, and + curtains of deep vivid blue, the large French windows between + two columns are open on to a wide terrace, beyond which are seen + trees in darkness, and distant shapes of lighted houses. On one + side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly drawn. + Opposite to this window is a door leading into the hall. At an + oval rosewood table, set with silver, flowers, fruit, and wine, + six people are seated after dinner. Back to the bay window is + STEPHEN MORE, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, a + rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; to his + right, SIR, JOHN JULIAN, an old soldier, with thin brown + features, and grey moustaches; to SIR JOHN's right, his brother, + the DEAN OF STOUR, a tall, dark, ascetic-looking Churchman: to + his right KATHERINE is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, + and her chin on her hands, staring across at her husband; to her + right sits EDWARD MENDIP, a pale man of forty-five, very bald, + with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that + shows his teeth; between him and MORE is HELEN JULIAN, a pretty + dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own. The + voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the + curtain rises. + + +THE DEAN. I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, entirely +disagree. + +MORE. I can't help it. + +MENDIP. Remember a certain war, Stephen! Were your chivalrous +notions any good, then? And, what was winked at in an obscure young +Member is anathema for an Under Secretary of State. You can't +afford---- + +MORE. To follow my conscience? That's new, Mendip. + +MENDIP. Idealism can be out of place, my friend. + +THE DEAN. The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race, +on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted. + +MORE. God made them, Dean. + +MENDIP. I have my doubts. + +THE DEAN. They have proved themselves faithless. We have the right +to chastise. + +MORE. If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have I +the right to chastise him? + +SIR JOHN. We didn't begin this business. + +MORE. What! With our missionaries and our trading? + +THE DEAN. It is news indeed that the work of civilization may be +justifiably met by murder. Have you forgotten Glaive and Morlinson? + +SIR JOHN. Yes. And that poor fellow Groome and his wife? + +MORE. They went into a wild country, against the feeling of the +tribes, on their own business. What has the nation to do with the +mishaps of gamblers? + +SIR JOHN. We can't stand by and see our own flesh and blood +ill-treated! + +THE DEAN. Does our rule bring blessing--or does it not, Stephen? + +MORE. Sometimes; but with all my soul I deny the fantastic +superstition that our rule can benefit a people like this, a nation +of one race, as different from ourselves as dark from light--in +colour, religion, every mortal thing. We can only pervert their +natural instincts. + +THE DEAN. That to me is an unintelligible point of view. + +MENDIP. Go into that philosophy of yours a little deeper, Stephen-- +it spells stagnation. There are no fixed stars on this earth. +Nations can't let each other alone. + +MORE. Big ones could let little ones alone. + +MENDIP. If they could there'd be no big ones. My dear fellow, we +know little nations are your hobby, but surely office should have +toned you down. + +SIR JOHN. I've served my country fifty years, and I say she is not +in the wrong. + +MORE. I hope to serve her fifty, Sir John, and I say she is. + +MENDIP. There are moments when such things can't be said, More. + +MORE. They'll be said by me to-night, Mendip. + +MENDIP. In the House? + + [MORE nods.] + +KATHERINE. Stephen! + +MENDIP. Mrs. More, you mustn't let him. It's madness. + +MORE. [Rising] You can tell people that to-morrow, Mendip. Give it +a leader in 'The Parthenon'. + +MENDIP. Political lunacy! No man in your position has a right to +fly out like this at the eleventh hour. + +MORE. I've made no secret of my feelings all along. I'm against +this war, and against the annexation we all know it will lead to. + +MENDIP. My dear fellow! Don't be so Quixotic! We shall have war +within the next twenty-four hours, and nothing you can do will stop +it. + +HELEN. Oh! No! + +MENDIP. I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hubert. + +SIR JOHN. Not a doubt of it, Helen. + +MENDIP. [TO MORE] And you mean to charge the windmill? + + [MORE nods.] + +MENDIP. 'C'est magnifique'! + +MORE. I'm not out for advertisement. + +MENDIP. You will get it! + +MORE. Must speak the truth sometimes, even at that risk. + +SIR JOHN. It is not the truth. + +MENDIP. The greater the truth the greater the libel, and the greater +the resentment of the person libelled. + +THE DEAN. [Trying to bring matters to a blander level] My dear +Stephen, even if you were right--which I deny--about the initial +merits, there surely comes a point where the individual conscience +must resign it self to the country's feeling. This has become a +question of national honour. + +SIR JOHN. Well said, James! + +MORE. Nations are bad judges of their honour, Dean. + +THE DEAN. I shall not follow you there. + +MORE. No. It's an awkward word. + +KATHERINE. [Stopping THE DEAN] Uncle James! Please! + + [MORE looks at her intently.] + +SIR JOHN. So you're going to put yourself at the head of the cranks, +ruin your career, and make me ashamed that you're my son-in-law? + +MORE. Is a man only to hold beliefs when they're popular? You've +stood up to be shot at often enough, Sir John. + +SIR JOHN. Never by my country! Your speech will be in all the +foreign press-trust 'em for seizing on anything against us. A +show-up before other countries----! + +MORE. You admit the show-up? + +SIR JOHN. I do not, sir. + +THE DEAN. The position has become impossible. The state of things +out there must be put an end to once for all! Come, Katherine, back +us up! + +MORE. My country, right or wrong! Guilty--still my country! + +MENDIP. That begs the question. + + [KATHERINE rises. THE DEAN, too, stands up.] + +THE DEAN. [In a low voice] 'Quem Deus volt perdere'----! + +SIR JOHN. Unpatriotic! + +MORE. I'll have no truck with tyranny. + +KATHERINE. Father doesn't admit tyranny. Nor do any of us, Stephen. + +HUBERT JULIAN, a tall Soldier-like man, has come in. + +HELEN. Hubert! + + [She gets up and goes to him, and they talk together near the + door.] + +SIR JOHN. What in God's name is your idea? We've forborne long +enough, in all conscience. + +MORE. Sir John, we great Powers have got to change our ways in +dealing with weaker nations. The very dogs can give us lessons-- +watch a big dog with a little one. + +MENDIP. No, no, these things are not so simple as all that. + +MORE. There's no reason in the world, Mendip, why the rules of +chivalry should not apply to nations at least as well as to---dogs. + +MENDIP. My dear friend, are you to become that hapless kind of +outcast, a champion of lost causes? + +MORE. This cause is not lost. + +MENDIP. Right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause in all this world. +There was never a time when the word "patriotism" stirred mob +sentiment as it does now. 'Ware "Mob," Stephen---'ware "Mob"! + +MORE. Because general sentiment's against me, I--a public man--am to +deny my faith? The point is not whether I'm right or wrong, Mendip, +but whether I'm to sneak out of my conviction because it's unpopular. + +THE DEAN. I'm afraid I must go. [To KATHERINE] Good-night, my +dear! Ah! Hubert! [He greets HUBERT] Mr. Mendip, I go your way. +Can I drop you? + +MENDIP. Thank you. Good-night, Mrs. More. Stop him! It's +perdition. + + [He and THE DEAN go out. KATHERINE puts her arm in HELEN'S, and + takes her out of the room. HUBERT remains standing by the door] + +SIR JOHN. I knew your views were extreme in many ways, Stephen, +but I never thought the husband of my daughter would be a +Peace-at-any-price man! + +MORE. I am not! But I prefer to fight some one my own size. + +SIR JOHN. Well! I can only hope to God you'll come to your senses +before you commit the folly of this speech. I must get back to the +War Office. Good-night, Hubert. + +HUBERT. Good-night, Father. + + [SIR JOHN goes out. HUBERT stands motionless, dejected.] + +HUBERT. We've got our orders. + +MORE. What? When d'you sail? + +HUBERT. At once. + +MORE. Poor Helen! + +HUBERT. Not married a year; pretty bad luck! [MORE touches his arm +in sympathy] Well! We've got to put feelings in our pockets. Look +here, Stephen--don't make that speech! Think of Katherine--with the +Dad at the War Office, and me going out, and Ralph and old George out +there already! You can't trust your tongue when you're hot about a +thing. + +MORE. I must speak, Hubert. + +HUBERT. No, no! Bottle yourself up for to-night. The next few +hours 'll see it begin. [MORE turns from him] If you don't care +whether you mess up your own career--don't tear Katherine in two! + +MORE. You're not shirking your duty because of your wife. + +HUBERT. Well! You're riding for a fall, and a godless mucker it'll +be. This'll be no picnic. We shall get some nasty knocks out there. +Wait and see the feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in +those mountains. It's awful country. Those fellows have got modern +arms, and are jolly good fighters. Do drop it, Stephen! + +MORE. Must risk something, sometimes, Hubert--even in my profession! + + [As he speaks, KATHERINE comes in.] + +HUBERT. But it's hopeless, my dear chap--absolutely. + + [MORE turns to the window, HUBERT to his sister--then with a + gesture towards MORE, as though to leave the matter to her, he + goes out.] + +KATHERINE. Stephen! Are you really going to speak? [He nods] I ask +you not. + +MORE. You know my feeling. + +KATHERINE. But it's our own country. We can't stand apart from it. +You won't stop anything--only make people hate you. I can't bear +that. + +MORE. I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice. Two or three +reverses--certain to come--and the whole country will go wild. And +one more little nation will cease to live. + +KATHERINE. If you believe in your country, you must believe that the +more land and power she has, the better for the world. + +MORE. Is that your faith? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +MORE. I respect it; I even understand it; but--I can't hold it. + +KATHERINE. But, Stephen, your speech will be a rallying cry to all +the cranks, and every one who has a spite against the country. +They'll make you their figurehead. [MORE smiles] They will. Your +chance of the Cabinet will go--you may even have to resign your seat. + +MORE. Dogs will bark. These things soon blow over. + +KATHERINE. No, no! If you once begin a thing, you always go on; and +what earthly good? + +MORE. History won't say: "And this they did without a single protest +from their public men!" + +KATHERINE. There are plenty who---- + +MORE. Poets? + +KATHERINE. Do you remember that day on our honeymoon, going up Ben +Lawers? You were lying on your face in the heather; you said it was +like kissing a loved woman. There was a lark singing--you said that +was the voice of one's worship. The hills were very blue; that's why +we had blue here, because it was the best dress of our country. You +do love her. + +MORE. Love her! + +KATHERINE. You'd have done this for me--then. + +MORE. Would you have asked me--then, Kit? + +KATHERINE. Yes. The country's our country! Oh! Stephen, think +what it'll be like for me--with Hubert and the other boys out there. +And poor Helen, and Father! I beg you not to make this speech. + +MORE. Kit! This isn't fair. Do you want me to feel myself a cur? + +KATHERINE. [Breathless] I--I--almost feel you'll be a cur to do it +[She looks at him, frightened by her own words. Then, as the footman +HENRY has come in to clear the table--very low] I ask you not! + + [He does not answer, and she goes out.] + +MORE [To the servant] Later, please, Henry, later! + + The servant retires. MORE still stands looking down at the + dining-table; then putting his hand to his throat, as if to free + it from the grip of his collar, he pours out a glass of water, + and drinks it of. In the street, outside the bay window, two + street musicians, a harp and a violin, have taken up their + stand, and after some twangs and scrapes, break into music. + MORE goes towards the sound, and draws aside one curtain. After + a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up the notes of the + speech. He is in an agony of indecision. + +MORE. A cur! + + He seems about to tear his notes across. Then, changing his + mind, turns them over and over, muttering. His voice gradually + grows louder, till he is declaiming to the empty room the + peroration of his speech. + +MORE.... We have arrogated to our land the title Champion of +Freedom, Foe of Oppression. Is that indeed a bygone glory? Is it +not worth some sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying +another stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the searchlight +eyes of History the spectacle of yet one more piece of national +cynicism? We are about to force our will and our dominion on a race +that has always been free, that loves its country, and its +independence, as much as ever we love ours. I cannot sit silent +to-night and see this begin. As we are tender of our own land, so we +should be of the lands of others. I love my country. It is because +I love my country that I raise my voice. Warlike in spirit these +people may be--but they have no chance against ourselves. And war on +such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious to the future. +The great heart of mankind ever beats in sense and sympathy with the +weaker. It is against this great heart of mankind that we are going. +In the name of Justice and Civilization we pursue this policy; but by +Justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by Civilization--condemned. + + While he is speaking, a little figure has flown along the + terrace outside, in the direction of the music, but has stopped + at the sound of his voice, and stands in the open window, + listening--a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue + dressing-gown caught up in her hand. The street musicians, + having reached the end of a tune, are silent. + + In the intensity of MORES feeling, a wine-glass, gripped too + strongly, breaks and falls in pieces onto a finger-bowl. The + child starts forward into the room. + +MORE. Olive! + +OLIVE. Who were you speaking to, Daddy? + +MORE. [Staring at her] The wind, sweetheart! + +OLIVE. There isn't any! + +MORE. What blew you down, then? + +OLIVE. [Mysteriously] The music. Did the wind break the +wine-glass, or did it come in two in your hand? + +MORE. Now my sprite! Upstairs again, before Nurse catches you. +Fly! Fly! + +OLIVE. Oh! no, Daddy! [With confidential fervour] It feels like +things to-night! + +MORE. You're right there! + +OLIVE. [Pulling him down to her, and whispering] I must get back +again in secret. H'sh! + + She suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of + the bay window. A young man enters, with a note in his hand. + +MORE. Hello, Steel! + + [The street musicians have again begun to play.] + +STEEL. From Sir John--by special messenger from the War Office. + +MORE. [Reading the note] "The ball is opened." + + He stands brooding over the note, and STEEL looks at him + anxiously. He is a dark, sallow, thin-faced young man, with the + eyes of one who can attach himself to people, and suffer with + them. + +STEEL. I'm glad it's begun, sir. It would have been an awful pity +to have made that speech. + +MORE. You too, Steel! + +STEEL. I mean, if it's actually started---- + +MORE. [Tearing tie note across] Yes. Keep that to yourself. + +STEEL. Do you want me any more? + + MORE takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them + down on the bureau. + +MORE. Answer these. + +STEEL. [Going to the bureau] Fetherby was simply sickening. [He +begins to write. Struggle has begun again in MORE] Not the faintest +recognition that there are two sides to it. + + MORE gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the dining-table + and picks up his sheaf of notes. Hiding them with his sleeve, + he goes back to the window, where he again stands hesitating. + +STEEL. Chief gem: [Imitating] "We must show Impudence at last that +Dignity is not asleep!" + +MORE. [Moving out on to the terrace] Nice quiet night! + +STEEL. This to the Cottage Hospital--shall I say you will preside? + +MORE. No. + + STEEL writes; then looking up and seeing that MORE is no longer + there, he goes to the window, looks to right and left, returns + to the bureau, and is about to sit down again when a thought + seems to strike him with consternation. He goes again to the + window. Then snatching up his hat, he passes hurriedly out + along the terrace. As he vanishes, KATHERINE comes in from the + hall. After looking out on to the terrace she goes to the bay + window; stands there listening; then comes restlessly back into + the room. OLIVE, creeping quietly from behind the curtain, + clasps her round the waist. + +KATHERINE. O my darling! How you startled me! What are you doing +down here, you wicked little sinner! + +OLIVE. I explained all that to Daddy. We needn't go into it again, +need we? + +KATHERINE. Where is Daddy? + +OLIVE. Gone. + +KATHERINE. When? + +OLIVE. Oh! only just, and Mr. Steel went after him like a rabbit. +[The music stops] They haven't been paid, you know. + +KATHERINE. Now, go up at once. I can't think how you got down here. + +OLIVE. I can. [Wheedling] If you pay them, Mummy, they're sure to +play another. + +KATHERINE. Well, give them that! One more only. + + She gives OLIVE a coin, who runs with it to the bay window, + opens the aide casement, and calls to the musicians. + +OLIVE. Catch, please! And would you play just one more? + + She returns from the window, and seeing her mother lost in + thought, rubs herself against her. + +OLIVE. Have you got an ache? + +KATHARINE. Right through me, darling! + +OLIVE. Oh! + + [The musicians strike up a dance.] + +OLIVE. Oh! Mummy! I must just dance! + + She kicks off her lisle blue shoes, and begins dancing. While + she is capering HUBERT comes in from the hall. He stands + watching his little niece for a minute, and KATHERINE looks at + him. + +HUBERT. Stephen gone! + +KATHERINE. Yes--stop, Olive! + +OLIVE. Are you good at my sort of dancing, Uncle? + +HUBERT. Yes, chick--awfully! + +KATHERINE. Now, Olive! + + The musicians have suddenly broken off in the middle of a bar. + From the street comes the noise of distant shouting. + +OLIVE. Listen, Uncle! Isn't it a particular noise? + + HUBERT and KATHERINE listen with all their might, and OLIVE + stares at their faces. HUBERT goes to the window. The sound + comes nearer. The shouted words are faintly heard: "Pyper---- + war----our force crosses frontier--sharp fightin'----pyper." + +KATHERINE. [Breathless] Yes! It is. + + The street cry is heard again in two distant voices coming from + different directions: "War--pyper--sharp fightin' on the + frontier--pyper." + +KATHERINE. Shut out those ghouls! + + As HUBERT closes the window, NURSE WREFORD comes in from the + hall. She is an elderly woman endowed with a motherly grimness. + She fixes OLIVE with her eye, then suddenly becomes conscious of + the street cry. + +NURSE. Oh! don't say it's begun. + + [HUBERT comes from the window.] + +NURSE. Is the regiment to go, Mr. Hubert? + +HUBERT. Yes, Nanny. + +NURSE. Oh, dear! My boy! + +KATHERINE. [Signing to where OLIVE stands with wide eyes] Nurse! + +HUBERT. I'll look after him, Nurse. + +NURSE. And him keepin' company. And you not married a year. Ah! +Mr. Hubert, now do 'ee take care; you and him's both so rash. + +HUBERT. Not I, Nurse! + + NURSE looks long into his face, then lifts her finger, and + beckons OLIVE. + +OLIVE. [Perceiving new sensations before her, goes quietly] +Good-night, Uncle! Nanny, d'you know why I was obliged to come down? +[In a fervent whisper] It's a secret! + + [As she passes with NURSE out into the hall, her voice is heard + saying, "Do tell me all about the war."] + +HUBERT. [Smothering emotion under a blunt manner] We sail on +Friday, Kit. Be good to Helen, old girl. + +KATHERINE. Oh! I wish----! Why--can't--women--fight? + +HUBERT. Yes, it's bad for you, with Stephen taking it like this. +But he'll come round now it's once begun. + + KATHERINE shakes her head, then goes suddenly up to him, and + throws her arms round his neck. It is as if all the feeling + pent up in her were finding vent in this hug. + + The door from the hall is opened, and SIR JOHN'S voice is heard + outside: "All right, I'll find her." + +KATHERINE. Father! + + [SIR JOHN comes in.] + +SIR JOHN. Stephen get my note? I sent it over the moment I got to +the War Office. + +KATHERINE. I expect so. [Seeing the torn note on the table] Yes. + +SIR JOHN. They're shouting the news now. Thank God, I stopped that +crazy speech of his in time. + +KATHERINE. Have you stopped it? + +SIR JOHN. What! He wouldn't be such a sublime donkey? + +KATHERINE. I think that is just what he might be. [Going to the +window] We shall know soon. + + [SIR JOHN, after staring at her, goes up to HUBERT.] + +SIR JOHN. Keep a good heart, my boy. The country's first. [They +exchange a hand-squeeze.] + + KATHERINE backs away from the window. STEEL has appeared there + from the terrace, breathless from running. + +STEEL. Mr. More back? + +KATHERINE. No. Has he spoken? + +STEEL. Yes. + +KATHERINE. Against? + +STEEL. Yes. + +SIR JOHN. What? After! + + SIR, JOHN stands rigid, then turns and marches straight out into + the hall. At a sign from KATHERINE, HUBERT follows him. + +KATHERINE. Yes, Mr. Steel? + +STEEL. [Still breathless and agitated] We were here--he slipped +away from me somehow. He must have gone straight down to the House. +I ran over, but when I got in under the Gallery he was speaking +already. They expected something--I never heard it so still there. +He gripped them from the first word--deadly--every syllable. It got +some of those fellows. But all the time, under the silence you could +feel a--sort of--of--current going round. And then Sherratt--I think +it was--began it, and you saw the anger rising in them; but he kept +them down--his quietness! The feeling! I've never seen anything +like it there. + +Then there was a whisper all over the House that fighting had begun. +And the whole thing broke out--regular riot--as if they could have +killed him. Some one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but +he shook him off, and went on. Then he stopped dead and walked out, +and the noise dropped like a stone. The whole thing didn't last five +minutes. It was fine, Mrs. More; like--like lava; he was the only +cool person there. I wouldn't have missed it for anything--it was +grand! + + MORE has appeared on the terrace, behind STEEL. + +KATHERINE. Good-night, Mr. Steel. + +STEEL. [Startled] Oh!--Good-night! + + He goes out into the hall. KATHERINE picks up OLIVE'S shoes, + and stands clasping them to her breast. MORE comes in. + +KATHERINE. You've cleared your conscience, then! I didn't think +you'd hurt me so. + + MORE does not answer, still living in the scene he has gone + through, and KATHERINE goes a little nearer to him. + +KATHERINE. I'm with the country, heart and soul, Stephen. I warn +you. + + While they stand in silence, facing each other, the footman, + HENRY, enters from the hall. + +FOOTMAN. These notes, sir, from the House of Commons. + +KATHERINE. [Taking them] You can have the room directly. + + [The FOOTMAN goes out.] + +MORE. Open them! + + KATHERINE opens one after the other, and lets them fall on the + table. + +MORE. Well? + +KATHERINE. What you might expect. Three of your best friends. It's +begun. + +MORE. 'Ware Mob! [He gives a laugh] I must write to the Chief. + + KATHERINE makes an impulsive movement towards him; then quietly + goes to the bureau, sits down and takes up a pen. + +KATHERINE. Let me make the rough draft. [She waits] Yes? + +MORE. [Dictating] + +"July 15th. + +"DEAR SIR CHARLES, After my speech to-night, embodying my most +unalterable convictions [KATHERINE turns and looks up at him, but he +is staring straight before him, and with a little movement of despair +she goes on writing] I have no alternative but to place the +resignation of my Under-Secretaryship in your hands. My view, my +faith in this matter may be wrong--but I am surely right to keep the +flag of my faith flying. I imagine I need not enlarge on the +reasons----" + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + + + + +ACT. II + + Before noon a few days later. The open windows of the + dining-room let in the sunlight. On the table a number of + newspapers are littered. HELEN is sitting there, staring + straight before her. A newspaper boy runs by outside calling out + his wares. At the sound she gets up anti goes out on to the + terrace. HUBERT enters from the hall. He goes at once to the + terrace, and draws HELEN into the room. + +HELEN. Is it true--what they're shouting? + +HUBERT. Yes. Worse than we thought. They got our men all crumpled +up in the Pass--guns helpless. Ghastly beginning. + +HELEN. Oh, Hubert! + +HUBERT. My dearest girl! + + HELEN puts her face up to his. He kisses her. Then she turns + quickly into the bay window. The door from the hall has been + opened, and the footman, HENRY, comes in, preceding WREFORD and + his sweetheart. + +HENRY. Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs. More know. +[Catching sight of HUBERT] Beg pardon, sir! + +HUBERT. All right, Henry. [Off-hand] Ah! Wreford! [The FOOTMAN +withdraws] So you've brought her round. That's good! My sister'll +look after her--don't you worry! Got everything packed? Three +o'clock sharp. + +WREFORD. [A broad faced soldier, dressed in khaki with a certain +look of dry humour, now dimmed-speaking with a West Country burr] +That's right, zurr; all's ready. + + HELEN has come out of the window, and is quietly looking at + WREFORD and the girl standing there so awkwardly. + +HELEN. [Quietly] Take care of him, Wreford. + +HUBERT. We'll take care of each other, won't we, Wreford? + +HELEN. How long have you been engaged? + +THE GIRL. [A pretty, indeterminate young woman] Six months. [She +sobs suddenly.] + +HELEN. Ah! He'll soon be safe back. + +WREFORD. I'll owe 'em for this. [In a lacy voice to her] Don't 'ee +now! Don't 'ee! + +HELEN. No! Don't cry, please! + + She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the + terrace, HUBERT following. WREFORD and his girl remain where + they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs. + +WREFORD. Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 'ave to take you +'ome. That's silly, now we've a-come. I might be dead and buried by +the fuss you're makin'. You've a-drove the lady away. See! + + She regains control of herself as the door is opened and + KATHERINE appears, accompanied by OLIVE, who regards WREFORD + with awe and curiosity, and by NURSE, whose eyes are red, but + whose manner is composed. + +KATHERINE. My brother told me; so glad you've brought her. + +WREFORD. Ye--as, M'. She feels me goin', a bit. + +KATHERINE. Yes, yes! Still, it's for the country, isn't it? + +THE GIRL. That's what Wreford keeps tellin' me. He've got to go--so +it's no use upsettin' 'im. And of course I keep tellin' him I shall +be all right. + +NURSE. [Whose eyes never leave her son's face] And so you will. + +THE GIRL. Wreford thought it'd comfort him to know you were +interested in me. 'E's so 'ot-headed I'm sure somethin'll come to +'im. + +KATHERINE. We've all got some one going. Are you coming to the +docks? We must send them off in good spirits, you know. + +OLIVE. Perhaps he'll get a medal. + +KATHERINE. Olive! + +NURSE. You wouldn't like for him to be hanging back, one of them +anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones. + +KATHERINE. [Quickly] Let me see--I have your address. [Holding out +her hand to WREFORD] We'll look after her. + +OLIVE. [In a loud whisper] Shall I lend him my toffee? + +KATHERINE. If you like, dear. [To WREFORD] Now take care of my +brother and yourself, and we'll take care of her. + +WREFORD. Ye--as, M'. + + He then looks rather wretchedly at his girl, as if the interview + had not done so much for him as he had hoped. She drops a + little curtsey. WREFORD salutes. + +OLIVE. [Who has taken from the bureau a packet, places it in his +hand] It's very nourishing! + +WREFORD. Thank you, miss. + + Then, nudging each other, and entangled in their feelings and + the conventions, they pass out, shepherded by NURSE. + +KATHERINE. Poor things! + +OLIVE. What is an anti-patriot, stop-the-war one, Mummy? + +KATHERINE. [Taking up a newspaper] Just a stupid name, dear--don't +chatter! + +OLIVE. But tell me just one weeny thing! + +KATHERINE. Well? + +OLIVE. Is Daddy one? + +KATHERINE. Olive! How much do you know about this war? + +OLIVE. They won't obey us properly. So we have to beat them, and +take away their country. We shall, shan't we? + +KATHERINE. Yes. But Daddy doesn't want us to; he doesn't think it +fair, and he's been saying so. People are very angry with him. + +OLIVE. Why isn't it fair? I suppose we're littler than them. + +KATHERINE. No. + +OLIVE. Oh! in history we always are. And we always win. That's why +I like history. Which are you for, Mummy--us or them? + +KATHERINE. Us. + +OLIVE. Then I shall have to be. It's a pity we're not on the same +side as Daddy. [KATHERINE shudders] Will they hurt him for not +taking our side? + +KATHERINE. I expect they will, Olive. + +OLIVE. Then we shall have to be extra nice to him. + +KATHERINE. If we can. + +OLIVE. I can; I feel like it. + + HELEN and HUBERT have returned along the terrace. Seeing + KATHERINE and the child, HELEN passes on, but HUBERT comes in at + the French window. + +OLIVE. [Catching sight of him-softly] Is Uncle Hubert going to the +front to-day? [KATHERINE nods] But not grandfather? + +KATHERINE. No, dear. + +OLIVE. That's lucky for them, isn't it? + + HUBERT comes in. The presence of the child give him self-control. + +HUBERT. Well, old girl, it's good-bye. [To OLIVE] What shall I +bring you back, chick? + +OLIVE. Are there shops at the front? I thought it was dangerous. + +HUBERT. Not a bit. + +OLIVE. [Disillusioned] Oh! + +KATHERINE. Now, darling, give Uncle a good hug. + + [Under cover of OLIVE's hug, KATHERINE repairs her courage.] + +KATHERINE. The Dad and I'll be with you all in spirit. Good-bye, +old boy! + + They do not dare to kiss, and HUBERT goes out very stiff and + straight, in the doorway passing STEEL, of whom he takes no + notice. STEEL hesitates, and would go away. + +KATHERINE. Come in, Mr. Steel. + +STEEL. The deputation from Toulmin ought to be here, Mrs. More. +It's twelve. + +OLIVE. [Having made a little ball of newspaper-slyly] Mr. Steel, +catch! + + [She throws, and STEEL catches it in silence.] + +KATHERINE. Go upstairs, won't you, darling? + +OLIVE. Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy? Then I shall see if any +soldiers pass. + +KATHERINE. No. You can go out on the terrace a little, and then you +must go up. + + [OLIVE goes reluctantly out on to the terrace.] + +STEEL. Awful news this morning of that Pass! And have you seen +these? [Reading from the newspaper] "We will have no truck with the +jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment. +The Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all +virile patriots." [He takes up a second journal] "There is a +certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot +resist the itch to advertise himself. We would, at moments of +national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we +suspect of incipient rabies...." They're in full cry after +him! + +KATHERINE. I mind much more all the creatures who are always +flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly! You know +what's in his mind? + +STEEL. Oh! We must get him to give up that idea of lecturing +everywhere against the war, Mrs. More; we simply must. + +KATHERINE. [Listening] The deputation's come. Go and fetch him, +Mr. Steel. He'll be in his room, at the House. + + [STEEL goes out, and KATHERINE Stands at bay. In a moment he + opens the door again, to usher in the deputation; then retires. + The four gentlemen have entered as if conscious of grave issues. + The first and most picturesque is JAMES HOME, a thin, tall, + grey-bearded man, with plentiful hair, contradictious eyebrows, + and the half-shy, half-bold manners, alternately rude and over + polite, of one not accustomed to Society, yet secretly much + taken with himself. He is dressed in rough tweeds, with a red + silk tie slung through a ring, and is closely followed by MARK + WACE, a waxy, round-faced man of middle-age, with sleek dark + hair, traces of whisker, and a smooth way of continually rubbing + his hands together, as if selling something to an esteemed + customer. He is rather stout, wears dark clothes, with a large + gold chain. Following him comes CHARLES SHELDER, a lawyer of + fifty, with a bald egg-shaped head, and gold pince-nez. He has + little side whiskers, a leathery, yellowish skin, a rather kind + but watchful and dubious face, and when he speaks seems to have + a plum in his mouth, which arises from the preponderance of his + shaven upper lip. Last of the deputation comes WILLIAM BANNING, + an energetic-looking, square-shouldered, self-made country-man, + between fifty and sixty, with grey moustaches, ruddy face, and + lively brown eyes.] + +KATHERINE. How do you do, Mr. Home? + +HOME. [Bowing rather extravagantly over her hand, as if to show his +independence of women's influence] Mrs. More! We hardly expected-- +This is an honour. + +WACE. How do you do, Ma'am? + +KATHERINE. And you, Mr. Wace? + +WACE. Thank you, Ma'am, well indeed! + +SHELDER. How d'you do, Mrs. More? + +KATHERINE. Very well, thank you, Mr. Shelder. + +BANNING. [Speaking with a rather broad country accent] This is but +a poor occasion, Ma'am. + +KATHERINE. Yes, Mr. Banning. Do sit down, gentlemen. + + Seeing that they will not settle down while she is standing, she + sits at the table. They gradually take their seats. Each + member of the deputation in his own way is severely hanging back + from any mention of the subject in hand; and KATHERINE as intent + on drawing them to it. + +KATHERINE. My husband will be here in two minutes. He's only over +at the House. + +SHELDER. [Who is of higher standing and education than the others] +Charming position--this, Mrs. More! So near the--er--Centre of-- +Gravity um? + +KATHERINE. I read the account of your second meeting at Toulmin. + +BANNING. It's bad, Mrs. More--bad. There's no disguising it. That +speech was moon-summer madness--Ah! it was! Take a lot of explaining +away. Why did you let him, now? Why did you? Not your views, I'm +sure! + + [He looks at her, but for answer she only compresses her lips.] + +BANNING. I tell you what hit me--what's hit the whole constituency-- +and that's his knowing we were over the frontier, fighting already, +when he made it. + +KATHERINE. What difference does it make if he did know? + +HOME. Hitting below the belt--I should have thought--you'll pardon +me! + +BANNING. Till war's begun, Mrs. More, you're entitled to say what +you like, no doubt--but after! That's going against your country. +Ah! his speech was strong, you know--his speech was strong. + +KATHERINE. He had made up his mind to speak. It was just an +accident the news coming then. + + [A silence.] + +BANNING. Well, that's true, I suppose. What we really want is to +make sure he won't break out again. + +HOME. Very high-minded, his views of course--but, some consideration +for the common herd. You'll pardon me! + +SHELDER. We've come with the friendliest feelings, Mrs. More--but, +you know, it won't do, this sort of thing! + +WACE. We shall be able to smooth him down. Oh! surely. + +BANNING. We'd be best perhaps not to mention about his knowing that +fighting had begun. + + [As he speaks, MORE enters through the French windows. They all + rise.] + +MORE. Good-morning, gentlemen. + + [He comes down to the table, but does not offer to shake hands.] + +BANNING. Well, Mr. More? You've made a woeful mistake, sir; I tell +you to your face. + +MORE. As everybody else does, Banning. Sit down again, please. + + [They gradually resume their seats, and MORE sits in KATHERINE's + chair. She alone remains standing leaning against the corner of + the bay window, watching their faces.] + +BANNING. You've seen the morning's telegrams? I tell you, Mr. +More--another reverse like that, and the flood will sweep you clean +away. And I'll not blame it. It's only flesh and blood. + +MORE, Allow for the flesh and blood in me, too, please. When I spoke +the other night it was not without a certain feeling here. [He +touches his heart.] + +BANNING. But your attitude's so sudden--you'd not been going that +length when you were down with us in May. + +MORE. Do me the justice to remember that even then I was against our +policy. It cost me three weeks' hard struggle to make up my mind to +that speech. One comes slowly to these things, Banning. + +SHELDER. Case of conscience? + +MORE. Such things have happened, Shelder, even in politics. + +SHELDER. You see, our ideals are naturally low--how different from +yours! + + [MORE smiles.] + + KATHERINE, who has drawn near her husband, moves back again, as + if relieved at this gleam of geniality. WACE rubs his hands. + +BANNING. There's one thing you forget, sir. We send you to +Parliament, representing us; but you couldn't find six men in the +whole constituency that would have bidden you to make that speech. + +MORE. I'm sorry; but I can't help my convictions, Banning. + +SHELDER. What was it the prophet was without in his own country? + +BANNING. Ah! but we're not funning, Mr. More. I've never known +feeling run so high. The sentiment of both meetings was dead against +you. We've had showers of letters to headquarters. Some from very +good men--very warm friends of yours. + +SHELDER. Come now! It's not too late. Let's go back and tell them +you won't do it again. + +MORE. Muzzling order? + +BANNING. [Bluntly] That's about it. + +MORE. Give up my principles to save my Parliamentary skin. Then, +indeed, they might call me a degenerate! [He touches the newspapers +on the table.] + + KATHERINE makes an abrupt and painful movement, then remains as + still as before, leaning against the corner of the window-seat. + +BANNING. Well, Well! I know. But we don't ask you to take your +words back--we only want discretion in the future. + +MORE. Conspiracy of silence! And have it said that a mob of +newspapers have hounded me to it. + +BANNING. They won't say that of you. + +SHELDER. My dear More, aren't you rather dropping to our level? +With your principles you ought not to care two straws what people +say. + +MORE. But I do. I can't betray the dignity and courage of public +men. If popular opinion is to control the utterances of her +politicians, then good-bye indeed to this country! + +BANNING. Come now! I won't say that your views weren't sound enough +before the fighting began. I've never liked our policy out there. +But our blood's being spilled; and that makes all the difference. +I don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but I'd be ready to go +myself. We'd all of us be ready. And we can't have the man that +represents us talking wild, until we've licked these fellows. That's +it in a nutshell. + +MORE. I understand your feeling, Banning. I tender you my +resignation. I can't and won't hold on where I'm not wanted. + +BANNING. No, no, no! Don't do that! [His accent broader and +broader] You've 'ad your say, and there it is. Coom now! You've +been our Member nine years, in rain and shine. + +SHELDER. We want to keep you, More. Come! Give us your promise +--that's a good man! + +MORE. I don't make cheap promises. You ask too much. + + [There is silence, and they all look at MORE.] + +SHELDER. There are very excellent reasons for the Government's +policy. + +MORE. There are always excellent reasons for having your way with +the weak. + +SHELDER. My dear More, how can you get up any enthusiasm for those +cattle-lifting ruffians? + +MORE. Better lift cattle than lift freedom. + +SHELDER. Well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't go about the +country, saying so. + +MORE. But that is just what I must do. + + [Again they all look at MORE in consternation.] + +HOME. Not down our way, you'll pardon me. + +WACE. Really--really, sir---- + +SHELDER. The time of crusades is past, More. + +MORE. Is it? + +BANNING. Ah! no, but we don't want to part with you, Mr. More. +It's a bitter thing, this, after three elections. Look at the 'uman +side of it! To speak ill of your country when there's been a +disaster like this terrible business in the Pass. There's your own +wife. I see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon. +Come now--how must she feel? + + MORE breaks away to the bay window. The DEPUTATION exchange + glances. + +MORE. [Turning] To try to muzzle me like this--is going too far. + +BANNING. We just want to put you out of temptation. + +MORE. I've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years. +You've all been bricks to me. My heart's in my work, Banning; I'm +not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty. + +SHELDER. Just so--we don't want to see you in that quandary. + +BANNING. It'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong impression of +the state of feeling. Silence--till the bitterness is overpast; +there's naught else for it, Mr. More, while you feel as you do. That +tongue of yours! Come! You owe us something. You're a big man; +it's the big view you ought to take. + +MORE. I am trying to. + +HOME. And what precisely is your view--you'll pardon my asking? + +MORE. [Turning on him] Mr. Home a great country such as ours--is +trustee for the highest sentiments of mankind. Do these few outrages +justify us in stealing the freedom of this little people? + +BANNING. Steal--their freedom! That's rather running before the +hounds. + +MORE. Ah, Banning! now we come to it. In your hearts you're none of +you for that--neither by force nor fraud. And yet you all know that +we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all +we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak. The +Prime Minister's words the other night were these: "If we are forced +to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced." +What does that mean but swallowing this country? + +SHELDER. Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing. + +HOME. We don't want their wretched country--we're forced. + +MORE. We are not forced. + +SHELDER. My dear More, what is civilization but the logical, +inevitable swallowing up of the lower by the higher types of man? +And what else will it be here? + +MORE. We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we might argue it all +day. But the point is, not whether you or I are right--the point is: +What is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do? Please +tell me. + + [There is a silence.] + +BANNING. [Simply] I was just thinkin' of those poor fellows in the +Pass. + +MORE. I can see them, as well as you, Banning. But, imagine! Up in +our own country--the Black Valley--twelve hundred foreign devils dead +and dying--the crows busy over them--in our own country, our own +valley--ours--ours--violated. Would you care about "the poor +fellows" in that Pass?--Invading, stealing dogs! Kill them--kill +them! You would, and I would, too! + + The passion of those words touches and grips as no arguments + could; and they are silent. + +MORE. Well! What's the difference out there? I'm not so inhuman as +not to want to see this disaster in the Pass wiped out. But once +that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and +they're not few; [Very low] in spite of my own wife's feeling, I +must be free to raise my voice against this war. + +BANNING. [Speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it were, with +his eyes] Mr. More, there's no man I respect more than yourself. I +can't tell what they'll say down there when we go back; but I, for +one, don't feel it in me to take a hand in pressing you farther +against your faith. + +SHELDER. We don't deny that--that you have a case of sorts. + +WACE. No--surely. + +SHELDER. A--man should be free, I suppose, to hold his own opinions. + +MORE. Thank you, Shelder. + +BANNING. Well! well! We must take you as you are; but it's a rare +pity; there'll be a lot of trouble---- + + His eyes light on Honk who is leaning forward with hand raised + to his ear, listening. Very faint, from far in the distance, + there is heard a skirling sound. All become conscious of it, + all listen. + +HOME. [Suddenly] Bagpipes! + + The figure of OLIVE flies past the window, out on the terrace. + KATHERINE turns, as if to follow her. + +SHELDER. Highlanders! + + [He rises. KATHERINE goes quickly out on to the terrace. One + by one they all follow to the window. One by one go out on to + the terrace, till MORE is left alone. He turns to the bay + window. The music is swelling, coming nearer. MORE leaves the + window--his face distorted by the strafe of his emotions. He + paces the room, taking, in some sort, the rhythm of the march.] + + [Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the + tramp of a company. MORE stops at the table, covering his eyes + with his hands.] + + [The DEPUTATION troop back across the terrace, and come in at the + French windows. Their faces and manners have quite changed. + KATHERINE follows them as far as the window.] + +HOME. [In a strange, almost threatening voice] It won't do, Mr. +More. Give us your word, to hold your peace! + +SHELDER. Come! More. + +WACE. Yes, indeed--indeed! + +BANNING. We must have it. + +MORE. [Without lifting his head] I--I---- + + The drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard. + +BANNING. Can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been +struck? + + Now comes the scale and mutter of a following crowd. + +MORE. I give you---- + + Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "Give + the beggars hell, boys!" "Wipe your feet on their dirty + country!" "Don't leave 'em a gory acre!" And a burst of hoarse + cheering. + +MORE. [Flinging up his head] That's reality! By Heaven! No! + +KATHERINE. Oh! + +SHELDER. In that case, we'll go. + +BANNING. You mean it? You lose us, then! + + [MORE bows.] + +HOME. Good riddance! [Venomously--his eyes darting between MORE and +KATHERINE] Go and stump the country! Find out what they think of +you! You'll pardon me! + + One by one, without a word, only BANNING looking back, they pass + out into the hall. MORE sits down at the table before the pile + of newspapers. KATHERINE, in the window, never moves. OLIVE + comes along the terrace to her mother. + +OLIVE. They were nice ones! Such a lot of dirty people following, +and some quite clean, Mummy. [Conscious from her mother's face that +something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up +to his side] Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's crying. +And--look at Mummy! + + [MORE raises his head and looks.] + +OLIVE. Do be on our side! Do! + + She rubs her cheek against his. Feeling that he does not rub + his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to + her mother in wonder. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS + + + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + + A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban + theatre. The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building + is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment + bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one + still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the- + War Meeting, October 1st. Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and + others." The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps + of paper. Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. It + is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all + the light there is. A faint, confused murmur, as of distant + hooting is heard. Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough + girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is + again deserted. The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking + his head out, looks up and down. He withdraws, but in a second + reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen. + +DOORKEEPER. It's all clear. You can get away down here, gentlemen. +Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner. + +THE THREE. [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks, +very much! Thanks! + +FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Where's More? Isn't he coming? + + They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN. + +FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER] +Thanks. + + They hurry away. The DOORKEEPER retires. Another boy runs + past. Then the door opens again. STEEL and MORE come out. + + MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go + back. + +STEEL. Come along, sir, come! + +MORE. It sticks in my gizzard, Steel. + +STEEL. [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down +the steps] You owe it to the theatre people. [MORE still hesitates] +We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More +half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't seen +you for six weeks. + +MORE. All right; don't dislocate my arm. + + They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes + running down the alley. Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins + round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 'Ere 'e + is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came. + +STEEL. Quick, Sir, quick! + +MORE. That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador +remarked. + +STEEL. [Pulling him back towards the door] Well! come inside again, +anyway! + + A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping + quickly from the left. A motley crew, out for excitement; + loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. All in + the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. They gather round + the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity + that follows on a new development of any chase. MORE, on the + bottom step, turns and eyes them. + +A GIRL. [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or the young? + + [MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.] + +TALL YOUTH. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted +traitor! + + MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the + chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they + realized that they were spoiling their own sport. + +A ROUGH GIRL. Don't frighten the poor feller! + + [A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.] + +STEEL. [Tugging at MORE's arm] Come along, sir. + +MORE. [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd] Well, what do you want? + +A VOICE. Speech. + +MORE. Indeed! That's new. + +ROUGH VOICE. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver. +You can see it in his face. + +A BIG NAVY. [In front] Shut it! Give 'im a chanst! + +TALL YOUTH. Silence for the blasted traitor? + + A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt + silence. + +MORE. You shall have it in a nutshell! + +A SHOPBOY. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the +shoulder] Here y'are! + +MORE. Go home, and think! If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be +fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there? + +TALL YOUTH. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they come out in the open? + +MORE. They fight the best way they can. + + [A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the + outskirt.] + +MORE. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. I've never said a +word against our soldiers. It's the Government I condemn for putting +them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all +of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do, +left to yourselves. + + The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of + execration. + +MORE. I say not one of you would go for a weaker man. + +VOICES IN THE CROWD. + + ROUGH VOICE. Tork sense! + + GIRL'S VOICE. He's gittin' at you! + + TALL YOUTH'S VOICE. Shiny skunk! + +A NAVVY. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look 'ere, Mister! Don't +you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the +worse for you-you go 'ome! + +COCKNEY VOICE. And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears. + + [A spurt of laughter.] + +A FRIENDLY VOICE. [From the outskirts] Shame! there! Bravo, More! +Keep it up! + + [A scuffle drowns this cry.] + +MORE. [With vehemence] Stop that! Stop that! You---! + +TALL YOUTH. Traitor! + +AN ARTISAN. Who black-legged? + +MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies! + +MORE. Those tribesmen are defending their homes. + +TWO VOICES. Hear! hear! + + [They are hustled into silence.] + +TALL YOUTH. Wind-bag! + +MORE. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes! Not mobbing +unarmed men! + + [STEEL again pulls at his arm.] + +ROUGH. Shut it, or we'll do you in! + +MORE. [Recovering his coolness] Ah! Do me in by all means! You'd +deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your +time. + +STEEL. For God's sake, sir! + +MORE. [Shaking off his touch] Well! + + There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost + figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. The crowd + recoils. + + There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at + them. + +COCKNEY VOICE. Don't 'e speak well! What eloquence! + + Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE + across the face. He takes no notice. + +ROUGH VOICE. That's it! Give 'im some encouragement. + + The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous + smile on MORE'S face. + +A TALL YOUTH. Traitor! + +A VOICE. Don't stand there like a stuck pig. + +A ROUGH. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that! + + Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE + across the legs with a belt. STEEL starts forward. MORE, + flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil + staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this + silence is fast turning to rage. + +THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there--or +we'll make you! Go on! + + [MORE remains immovable.] + +A YOUTH. [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak! See! + + He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand. MORE jerks it + up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever. A + spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the + action. The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES + scornful face. + +TALL YOUTH. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you'll get it! + +A VOICE. Enough of your ugly mug! + +A ROUGH. Give 'im one! + + Two flung stones strike MORE. He staggers and nearly falls, + then rights himself. + +A GIRL'S VOICE. Shame! + +FRIENDLY VOICE. Bravo, More! Stick to it! + +A ROUGH. Give 'im another! + +A VOICE. No! + +A GIRL'S VOICE. Let 'im alone! Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun! + + Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy + silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet. Then the BIG + NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge + of the crowd. + +THE NAVVY. Let 'im be! + + With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd + breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is + nearly empty. + +MORE. [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting +his coat] Well, Steel! + + And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away. + Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass. One of them + stops and makes a note. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + + +SCENE II + +The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured +wood. The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is +sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table, +brushing her hair. A door, on the left, stands ajar. An oak chair +against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other +furniture. Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist +is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs +show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. As the curtain rises, +KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening. She begins again +brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a +drawer of her dressing-table, reads. Through the just open door +behind her comes the voice of OLIVE. + +OLIVE. Mummy! I'm awake! + + But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in + her nightgown. + +OLIVE. [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's +fourteen minutes to eleven. + +KATHERINE. Olive, Olive! + +OLIVE. I just wanted to see the time. I never can go to sleep if I +try--it's quite helpless, you know. Is there a victory yet? +[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh! I prayed extra special for one in +the evening papers. [Straying round her mother] Hasn't Daddy come? + +KATHERINE. Not yet. + +OLIVE. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face in her mother's +hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's particular to-night. + + KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm. + +OLIVE. How long has Daddy been away? + +KATHERINE. Six weeks. + +OLIVE. It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? Has he been +making speeches all the time? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. To-night, too? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. The night that man was here whose head's too bald for +anything--oh! Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so +termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a +wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they! + +KATHERINE. Very. + +OLIVE. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know. + +KATHERINE. Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive. + +OLIVE. Does Daddy often? + +KATHERINE. Yes, nowadays. + +OLIVE. What does it mean? + +KATHERINE. Speaking to people who won't listen. + +OLIVE. What do they do, then? + +KATHERINE. Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd +comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things, +and hoot. + +OLIVE. Poor Daddy! Is it people on our side who throw things? + +KATHERINE. Yes, but only rough people. + +OLIVE. Why does he go on doing it? I shouldn't. + +KATHERINE. He thinks it is his duty. + +OLIVE. To your neighbour, or only to God? + +KATHERINE. To both. + +OLIVE. Oh! Are those his letters? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." Does he always +call you his dear heart, Mummy? It's rather jolly, isn't it? +"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. For a few +hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are +the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y? + +KATHERINE. [Putting away the letters] Come, Olive! + +OLIVE. But what are they? + +KATHERINE. Daddy means that he's been very unhappy. + +OLIVE. Have you, too? + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. [Cheerfully] So have I. May I open the window? + +KATHERINE. No; you'll let the mist in. + +OLIVE. Isn't it a funny mist-all flat! + +KATHERINE. Now, come along, frog! + +OLIVE. [Making time] Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back? + +KATHERINE. We don't know, dear. + +OLIVE. I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does. + +KATHERINE. Yes. + +OLIVE. That's something, isn't it? + +KATHERINE. [Picking her up] Now then! + +OLIVE. [Deliciously limp] Had I better put in the duty to your +neighbour if there isn't a victory soon? [As they pass through the +door] You're tickling under my knee! [Little gurgles of pleasure +follow. Then silence. Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for +Daddy. + + KATHERINE comes back. She is about to leave the door a little + open, when she hears a knock on the other door. It is opened a + few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The + NURSE comes in. + +KATHERINE. [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her] What is it, +Nurse? + +NURSE. [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do +it in the daytime. I'm giving you notice. + +KATHERINE. Nurse! You too! + + She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay. The NURSE smudges a + slow tear away from her cheek. + +NURSE. I want to go right away at once. + +KATHERINE. Leave Olive! That is the sins of the fathers with a +vengeance. + +NURSE. I've had another letter from my son. No, Miss Katherine, +while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish +creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back. + +KATHERINE. But, Nurse----! + +NURSE. It's not like them [With an ineffable gesture] downstairs, +because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke +again, or mind what the boys in the street say. I should think not-- +no! It's my heart. I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and +him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water +that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day +one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself +perhaps. If anything were to 'appen to him. I'd never forgive +meself--here. Ah! Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad +news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time +the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself. + +KATHERINE. But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you? + +NURSE. [Smudging at her cheeks] There's that tells me it's +encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming +back to-night. You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says. + +KATHERINE. Don't you know what it's costing him? + +NURSE. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than +that it'll cost him, to go against the country. + +KATHERINE. He's following his conscience. + +NURSE. And others must follow theirs, too. No, Miss Katherine, for +you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your +father fair wasting away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been +these three months past. What'll you feel if anything happens to my +three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed +myself, when your precious mother couldn't? What would she have said +--with you in the camp of his enemies? + +KATHERINE. Nurse, Nurse! + +NURSE. In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and +makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war +lasts, there's our blood on this house. + +KATHERINE. [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen. + +NURSE. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move him to leave off! +I see your heart, my dear. But if you don't, then go I must! + + She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room, + opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the + words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door. + + KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and + smooths her lips and eyes. The door from the corridor is + opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit! You're not in bed?" + +KATHERINE. No. + + HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her + head. Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into + KATHERINE's arms. + +KATHERINE. My dear, what is it? + +HELEN. I've seen--a vision! + +KATHERINE. Hssh! You'll wake Olive! + +HELEN. [Staring before her] I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a +plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. And on it +there were--dark things. One grew into a body without a head, and a +gun by its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a +wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford. And then +I saw--Hubert. His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound, +an awful wound here [She touches her breast]. The blood was running +from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! Kit--by kissing it [She +pauses, stifled by emotion]. Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say +vultures didn't touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from +somewhere, calling out: "Oh! God! I'm dying!" And Wreford began to +swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor +fellow be!" But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out: +"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!" And Wreford +dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man +who's going to kill. + +KATHERINE. My dear! HOW ghastly! + +HELEN. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead +man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along, +so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him, +Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You +brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there, +he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got +black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to +the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it +touched him, and sprang away. And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing +out at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things! + +KATHERINE. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes! You must +have been looking at the mist. + +HELEN. [Strangely calm] He's dead! + +KATHERINE. It was only a dream. + +HELEN. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] That's Stephen. +Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help +coming. + + She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have + passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans + out. MORE comes in. + +MORE. Kit! + + Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to + her. + +KATHERINE. Ah! [She has mastered her emotion.] + +MORE. Let me look at you! + + He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long + at her. + +MORE. What have you done to your hair? + +KATHERINE. Nothing. + +MORE. It's wonderful to-night. + + [He takes it greedily and buries his face in it.] + +KATHERINE. [Drawing her hair away] Well? + +MORE. At last! + +KATHERINE. [Pointing to OLIVE's room] Hssh! + +MORE. How is she? + +KATHERINE. All right. + +MORE. And you? + + [KATHERINE shrugs her shoulders.] + +MORE. Six weeks! + +KATHERINE. Why have you come? + +MORE. Why! + +KATHERINE. You begin again the day after tomorrow. Was it worth +while? + +MORE. Kit! + +KATHERINE. It makes it harder for me, that's all. + +MORE. [Staring at her] What's come to you? + +KATHERINE. Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your +meetings. + +MORE. Put that away to-night. [He touches her] This is what +travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water. + +KATHERINE. [Suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead] Your +forehead! It's cut. + +MORE. It's nothing. + +KATHERINE. Oh! Let me bathe it! + +MORE. No, dear! It's all right. + +KATHERINE. [Turning away] Helen has just been telling me a dream +she's had of Hubert's death. + +MORE. Poor child! + +KATHERINE. Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's +been nothing else to do. Nothing, Stephen--nothing! + +MORE. Hide? Because of me? + + [KATHERINE nods.] + +MORE. [With a movement of distress] I see. I thought from your +letters you were coming to feel----. Kit! You look so lovely! + + [Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.] + +MORE. My dear, don't cry! God knows I don't want to make things +worse for you. I'll go away. + + She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her, + he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the + brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words. + +MORE. Never look forward. After the time I've had--I thought-- +tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and +everything! + + While he is speaking KATHERINE has stolen closer. She suddenly + drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair. + He turns and clasps her. + +MORE. Kit! + +KATHERINE. Ah! yes! But-to-morrow it begins again. Oh! Stephen! +How long--how long am I to be torn in two? [Drawing back in his +arms] I can't--can't bear it. + +MORE. My darling! + +KATHERINE. Give it up! For my sake! Give it up! [Pressing closer +to him] It shall be me--and everything---- + +MORE. God! + +KATHERINE. It shall be--if--if---- + +MORE. [Aghast] You're not making terms? Bargaining? For God's +sake, Kit! + +KATHERINE. For God's sake, Stephen! + +MORE. You!--of all people--you! + +KATHERINE. Stephen! + + [For a moment MORE yields utterly, then shrinks back.] + +MORE. A bargain! It's selling my soul! + + He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without + speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his + forehead. KATHERINE remains some seconds on her knees, gazing + up at him, not realizing. Then her head droops; she too gets up + and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her. It is + as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both. Quite + suddenly MORE turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his + way out of the room. When he is gone KATHERINE drops on her + knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS + + + + + +ACT IV + + It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of + MORE's house. The windows are closed, but curtains are not + drawn. STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from + MORE's dictation. + +STEEL. [Reading over the letter] "No doubt we shall have trouble. +But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the +hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. Let bills be got out, and +an audience will collect in any case." + +MORE. They will. + +STEEL. "Yours truly"; I've signed for you. + + [MORE nods.] + +STEEL. [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants +have all given notice--except Henry. + +MORE. Poor Henry! + +STEEL. It's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken +twice--but it's partly---- + +MORE. Patriotism. Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves. +That reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel. + +STEEL. Oh, no! + +MORE. My dear fellow--yes. Last night ended your sulphur cure. +Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it. + +STEEL. Some one must do the work. You're half dead as it is. + +MORE. There's lots of kick in me. + +STEEL. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It isn't worth it. + +MORE. To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything +better worth it? + +STEEL. Well, then, I'm not going. + +MORE. This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any +longer. Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but +yourself. + +STEEL. I can't leave you, sir. + +MORE. My dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so +far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer. Hand me +over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting. + +STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them. + +MORE. Come! [He stretches out his hand for the papers. As STEEL +still draws back, he says more sharply] Give them to me, Steel! +[STEEL hands them over] Now, that ends it, d'you see? + + They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset, + turns and goes out of the room. MORE, who has watched him with + a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is + closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr. + Mendip, sir." MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws. MORE + turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand. + +MENDIP. [Taking MORE'S hand] Give me credit for a little philosophy, +my friend. Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day. Have you heard? + +MORE. What? + +MENDIP. There's been a victory. + +MORE. Thank God! + +MENDIP. Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood. + +MORE. Yes! + +MENDIP. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. You're only flouting +human nature. + +MORE. So--even you defend the mob! + +MENDIP. My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common +instinct in the world. What do you expect? That the man in the +street should be a Quixote? That his love of country should express +itself in philosophic altruism? What on earth do you expect? Men +are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of +simple men. + +MORE. Conglomerate excrescence. Mud of street and market-place +gathered in a torrent--This blind howling "patriotism"--what each man +feels in here? [He touches his breast] No! + +MENDIP. You think men go beyond instinct--they don't. All they know +is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call +country. They just feel something big and religious, and go it +blind. + +MORE. This used to be the country of free speech. It used to be the +country where a man was expected to hold to his faith. + +MENDIP. There are limits to human nature, Stephen. + +MORE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. Still +your advice, is it? + +MENDIP. My advice is: Get out of town at once. The torrent you +speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. Come, my +dear fellow, don't stay here! + +MORE. Thanks! I'll see that Katherine and Olive go. + +MENDIP. Go with them! If your cause is lost, that's no reason why +you should be. + +MORE. There's the comfort of not running away. And--I want comfort. + +MENDIP. This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish--foolish. Well! I'm +going to the House. This way? + +MORE. Down the steps, and through the gate. Good-bye? + + KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked, + with a small bag in her hand. KATHERINE takes from the bureau a + cheque which she hands to the NURSE. MORE comes in from the + terrace. + +MORE. You're wise to go, Nurse. + +NURSE. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. Where's your heart? + +MORE. In full use. + +NURSE. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth and home come +first? Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father +fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. A bitter +thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by +the boys in the street. + + [MORE stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.] + +KATHERINE. Nurse! + +NURSE. It's unnatural, sir--what you're doing! To think more of +those savages than of your own wife! Look at her! Did you ever see +her look like that? Take care, sir, before it's too late! + +MORE. Enough, please! + + NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE; + then goes. + +MORE. [Quietly] There has been a victory. + + [He goes out. KATHERINE is breathing fast, listening to the + distant hum and stir rising in the street. She runs to the + window as the footman, HENRY, entering, says: "Sir John Julian, + Ma'am!" SIR JOHN comes in, a newspaper in his hand.] + +KATHERINE. At last! A victory! + +SIR JOHN. Thank God! [He hands her the paper.] + +KATHERINE. Oh, Dad! + + [She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.] + +KATHERINE. At last! + + The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. But SIR JOHN, + after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper, + stares dumbly at the floor. + +KATHERINE. [Suddenly conscious of his gravity] Father! + +SIR JOHN. There is other news. + +KATHERINE. One of the boys? Hubert? + + [SIR JOHN bows his head.] + +KATHERINE. Killed? + + [SIR JOHN again bows his head.] + +KATHERINE. The dream! [She covers her face] Poor Helen! + + They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his + head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek. + +SIR JOHN. [Huskily] Whom the gods love---- + +KATHERINE. Hubert! + +SIR JOHN. And hulks like me go on living! + +KATHERINE. Dear Dad! + +SIR JOHN. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We shall break them. +Stephen back? + +KATHERINE. Last night. + +SIR JOHN. Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last? +[KATHERINE shakes her head] Not? + + [Then, seeing that KATHERINE is quivering with emotion, he + strokes her hand.] + +SIR JOHN. My dear! Death is in many houses! + +KATHERINE. I must go to Helen. Tell Stephen, Father. I can't. + +SIR JOHN. If you wish, child. + + [She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and + in a few seconds MORE comes in.] + +MORE. Yes, Sir John. You wanted me? + +SIR JOHN. Hubert is killed. + +MORE. Hubert! + +SIR JOHN. By these--whom you uphold. Katherine asked me to let you +know. She's gone to Helen. I understand you only came back last +night from your----No word I can use would give what I feel about +that. I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine; +but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months +beyond what any woman ought to bear! + + [MORE makes a gesture of pain.] + +SIR JOHN. When you chose your course---- + +MORE. Chose! + +SIR JOHN. You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her. +You knew this might come. It may come again with another of my sons. + +MORE. I would willingly change places with any one of them. + +SIR JOHN. Yes--I can believe in your unhappiness. I cannot conceive +of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country. If I +could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price--no, nor +all my sons. 'Pro patri mori'--My boy, at all events, is happy! + +MORE. Yes! + +SIR JOHN. Yet you can go on doing what you are! What devil of pride +has got into you, Stephen? + +MORE. Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private +fighting out there? Not for a minute. + +SIR JOHN. I don't understand you. I always thought you devoted to +Katherine. + +MORE. Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and +child? + +SIR JOHN. I do. + +MORE. So do I. + +SIR JOHN. [Bewildered] Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I +no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God. [With +all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her] My +country! + +MORE. I would give all I have--for that creed. + +SIR JOHN. [Puzzled] Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank; +I always believed you sane and honest. But this is--visionary mania. + +MORE. Vision of what might be. + +SIR JOHN. Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation-- +the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them? I've +known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country. + +MORE. Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me! +To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I +were a wall! To dread the post! To go to bed every night with the +sound of hooting in my ears! To know that my name is never referred +to without contempt---- + +SIR JOHN. You have your new friends. Plenty of them, I understand. + +MORE. Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night? Your +battles are fool's play to it. + + The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder. + SIR JOHN turns his head towards it. + +SIR JOHN. You've heard there's been a victory. Do you carry your +unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? [MORE shakes his +head] That's something! For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's +gone past mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hubert was +her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. Think +what that means to her! Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever +you call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country till the +thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and-- +traducing. Take her away! Come! What good are you doing? What +earthly good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone. + +MORE. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's +in them! I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am +I to slink away? Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds +who've thanked me for taking this stand. They look on me now as +their leader. Am I to desert them? When you led your forlorn hope-- +did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come +through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are +following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred-- +not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time. + +SIR JOHN. [After a long stare] I give you credit for believing what +you say. But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too +old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's +love. By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks +and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of +your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much +the better for you. But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection-- +alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter +ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity +you. Good-night! + + He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. MORE is left + standing perfectly still. The stir and murmur of the street is + growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his + consciousness. He goes to the bay window and looks out; then + rings the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning up the + lights, he rings again. KATHERINE comes in. She is wearing a + black hat, and black outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without + looking up. + +KATHERINE. You rang! + +MORE. For them to shut this room up. + +KATHERINE. The servants have gone out. They're afraid of the house +being set on fire. + +MORE. I see. + +KATHERINE. They have not your ideals to sustain them. [MORE winces] +I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's. + +MORE. [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words] Good! You +prefer that to an hotel? [KATHERINE nods. Gently] Will you let me +say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's---- + +KATHERINE. Don't. I ought to have made what I meant plainer. I am +not coming back. + +MORE. Not? Not while the house---- + +KATHERINE. Not--at all. + +MORE. Kit! + +KATHERINE. I warned you from the first. You've gone too far! + +MORE. [Terribly moved] Do you understand what this means? After +ten years--and all--our love! + +KATHERINE. Was it love? How could you ever have loved one so +unheroic as myself! + +MORE. This is madness, Kit--Kit! + +KATHERINE. Last night I was ready. You couldn't. If you couldn't +then, you never can. You are very exalted, Stephen. I don't like +living--I won't live, with one whose equal I am not. This has been +coming ever since you made that speech. I told you that night what +the end would be. + +MORE. [Trying to put his arms round her] Don't be so terribly +cruel! + +KATHERINE. No! Let's have the truth! People so wide apart don't +love! Let me go! + +MORE. In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths? + +KATHERINE. Last night you used the word--bargain. Quite right. I +meant to buy you. I meant to kill your faith. You showed me what I +was doing. I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains, +Stephen. + +MORE. God knows--I never meant---- + +KATHERINE. If I'm not yours in spirit--I don't choose to be your-- +mistress. + + MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an + attitude of defence. + +KATHERINE. Yes, that's cruel! It shows the heights you live on. I +won't drag you down. + +MORE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and see! I'm fighting +for the faith that's in me. What else can a man do? What else? Ah! +Kit! Do see! + +KATHERINE. I'm strangled here! Doing nothing--sitting silent--when +my brothers are fighting, and being killed. I shall try to go out +nursing. Helen will come with me. I have my faith, too; my poor +common love of country. I can't stay here with you. I spent last +night on the floor--thinking--and I know! + +MORE. And Olive? + +KATHERINE. I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you +forbid me to take her. You can. + +MORE. [Icily] That I shall not do--you know very well. You are +free to go, and to take her. + +KATHERINE. [Very low] Thank you! [Suddenly she turns to him, and +draws his eyes on her. Without a sound, she puts her whole strength +into that look] Stephen! Give it up! Come down to me! + + The festive sounds from the street grow louder. There can be + heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds + of joy. + +MORE. And drown in--that? + +KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door. There she stands and again +looks at him. Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents +of her emotions. + +MORE. So--you're going? + +KATHERINE. [In a whisper] Yes. + + She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. MORE starts + forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the + doorway. She has on a straight little white coat and a round + white cap. + +OLIVE. Aren't you coming with us, Daddy? + + [MORE shakes his head.] + +OLIVE. Why not? + +MORE. Never mind, my dicky bird. + +OLIVE. The motor'll have to go very slow. There are such a lot of +people in the street. Are you staying to stop them setting the house +on fire? [MORE nods] May I stay a little, too? [MORE shakes his +head] Why? + +MORE. [Putting his hand on her head] Go along, my pretty! + +OLIVE. Oh! love me up, Daddy! + + [MORE takes and loves her up] + +OLIVE. Oo-o! + +MORE. Trot, my soul! + + [She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.] + + MORE follows her to the door, but stops there. Then, as full + realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window, + craning his head to catch sight of the front door. There is the + sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its + horn as it makes its way among the crowd. He turns from the + window. + +MORE. Alone as the last man on earth! + + [Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the + street.] + +VOICE. There 'e is! That's 'im! More! Traitor! More! + + A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins + to rattle against the glass of the window. Many voices take up + the groaning: "More! Traitor! Black-leg! More!" And through + the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese + lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos. The din of execration + swells. MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab. + Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of + the panes. It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a + hearty groan. A second stone crashes through the glass. MORE + turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the + street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his + face. Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he + moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head + droop. The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes + through. MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands, + looks straight before him. The footman, HENRY, entering, + hastens to the French windows. + +MORE. Ah! Henry, I thought you'd gone. + +FOOTMAN. I came back, sir. + +MORE. Good fellow! + +FOOTMAN. They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir. They've no +business coming on to private property--no matter what! + + In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows + fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the + terrace, and no more seen. The MOB is a mixed crowd of + revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and + girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats--Some + wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles. + Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside + on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such + ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS, + the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an + athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and + heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge + arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the + first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To + him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive + MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round + the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music + of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF + THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him + down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and + stand gaping up at him. + +CHIEF STUDENT. Speech! Speech! + + [The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.] + +CHIEF STUDENT. Now then, you, sir. + +MORE. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here by the law that +governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force. By that law, you +can do what you like to this body of mine. + +A VOICE. And we will, too. + +MORE. I don't doubt it. But before that, I've a word to say. + +A VOICE. You've always that. + + [ANOTHER VOICE raises a donkey's braying.] + +MORE. You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun. When +you walk the street--God goes in. + +CHIEF STUDENT. Be careful, you--sir. + +VOICES. Down him! Down with the beggar! + +MORE. [Above the murmurs] My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you. +You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak. +Put up with the truth for once! [His words rush out] You are the +thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. This +to-day, and that to-morrow. Brain--you have none. Spirit--not the +ghost of it! If you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If +you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing +fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of +our soldiers, and this of mine. You have neither! + +CHIEF STUDENT. [Checking a dangerous rush] Hold on! Hold on! [To +MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear +it! + +CROWD. Ah! Ay! Ah! + +MORE. My country is not yours. Mine is that great country which +shall never take toll from the weakness of others. [Above the +groaning] Ah! you can break my head and my windows; but don't think +that you can break my faith. You could never break or shake it, if +you were a million to one. + + A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the + crowd and shakes her fist at him. + +GIRL. You're friends with them that killed my lad! [MORE smiles +down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy +Scout beside her] Smile, you--cur! + + A violent rush and heave from behind flings MORE forward on to + the steel. He reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the + crowd. A scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries. The CHIEF + STUDENT shouts above the riot: "Steady!" Another: "My God! + He's got it!" + +CHIEF STUDENT. Give him air! + + The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift + his arms and head, but they fall like lead. Desperately they + test him for life. + +CHIEF STUDENT. By the Lord, it's over! + + Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window. Some one + turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts + away. The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese + lantern. Muttering the words: "Poor devil! He kept his end up + anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little + abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast. Then he, + too, turns, and rushes out. + + And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee + noises in the street continue to rise. + + + THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST AT ONCE. + + + + +AFTERMATH + + A late Spring dawn is just breaking. Against trees in leaf and + blossom, with the houses of a London Square beyond, suffused by + the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite + pedestal. In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement. The light + grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly + read: + + ERECTED + To the Memory + of + STEPHEN MORE + "Faithful to his ideal" + +High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint +smile. On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have +perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and +singing of birds. + + +THE CURTAIN FALLS. + + +The End + + + + + + End of Project Gutenberg's The Mob (Third Series Plays), by John Galsworthy + + *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOB (THIRD SERIES PLAYS) *** + + ***** This file should be named 2914.txt or 2914.zip ***** + This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/1/2914/ + + Produced by David Widger + + Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions + will be renamed. + + Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no + one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation + (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without + permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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