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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: Windows (Fifth Series Plays) + + Author: John Galsworthy + + Release Date: September 26, 2004 [EBook #4766] + Last Updated: October 28, 2012 + + Language: English + + Character set encoding: ASCII + + *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINDOWS (FIFTH SERIES PLAYS) *** + + Produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + <h2> + <i>GALSWORTHY'S PLAYS</i> + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + <i>Links to All Volumes</i> + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> + <tr> + <td> + THE FIRST SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2906/2906-h/2906-h.htm"><b>The + Silver Box</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2907/2907-h/2907-h.htm"><b>Joy</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2908/2908-h/2908-h.htm"><b>Strife</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE SECOND SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2909/2909-h/2909-h.htm"><b>The + Eldest Son</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2910/2910-h/2910-h.htm"><b>Little + Dream</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2911/2911-h/2911-h.htm"><b>Justice</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE THIRD SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2912/2912-h/2912-h.htm"><b>The + Fugitive</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2913/2913-h/2913-h.htm"><b>The + Pigeon</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2914/2914-h/2914-h.htm"><b>The + Mob</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE FOURTH SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2915/2915-h/2915-h.htm"><b>A + Bit O'Love</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2916/2916-h/2916-h.htm"><b>The + Foundations</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2917/2917-h/2917-h.htm"><b>The + Skin Game</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE FIFTH SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4764/4764-h/4764-h.htm"><b>A + Family Man</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4765/4765-h/4765-h.htm"><b>Loyalties</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4766/4766-h/4766-h.htm"><b>Windows</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE SIXTH SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2918/2918-h/2918-h.htm"><b>The + First and Last</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2919/2919-h/2919-h.htm"><b>The + Little Man</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2920/2920-h/2920-h.htm"><b>Four + Short Plays</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + <i>FIFTH SERIES PLAYS OF GALSWORTHY</i> + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + WINDOWS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By John Galsworthy + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT III </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PERSONS OF THE PLAY + + GEOFFREY MARCH....... Freelance in Literature + JOAN MARCH........... His Wife + MARY MARCH........... Their Daughter + JOHNNY MARCH......... Their Son + COOK................. Their Cook + MR BLY............... Their Window Cleaner + FAITH BLY............ His Daughter + BLUNTER.............. A Strange Young Man + MR BARNADAS.......... In Plain Clothes + + The action passes in Geofrey March's House, Highgate-Spring-time. + + ACT I. Thursday morning. The dining-room-after breakfast. + + ACT II. Thursday, a fortnight later. The dining-room after lunch. + + ACT III. The same day. The dining-room-after dinner. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> + <blockquote> + <p> + The MARCH'S dining-room opens through French windows on one of those + gardens which seem infinite, till they are seen to be coterminous with + the side walls of the house, and finite at the far end, because only the + thick screen of acacias and sumachs prevents another house from being + seen. The French and other windows form practically all the outer wall + of that dining-room, and between them and the screen of trees lies the + difference between the characters of Mr and Mrs March, with dots and + dashes of Mary and Johnny thrown in. For instance, it has been + formalised by MRS MARCH but the grass has not been cut by MR MARCH, and + daffodils have sprung up there, which MRS MARCH desires for the + dining-room, but of which MR MARCH says: "For God's sake, Joan, let them + grow." About half therefore are now in a bowl on the breakfast table, + and the other half still in the grass, in the compromise essential to + lasting domesticity. A hammock under the acacias shows that MARY lies + there sometimes with her eyes on the gleam of sunlight that comes + through: and a trail in the longish grass, bordered with cigarette ends, + proves that JOHNNY tramps there with his eyes on the ground or the + stars, according. But all this is by the way, because except for a yard + or two of gravel terrace outside the windows, it is all painted on the + backcloth. The MARCHES have been at breakfast, and the round table, + covered with blue linen, is thick with remains, seven baskets full. The + room is gifted with old oak furniture: there is a door, stage Left, + Forward; a hearth, where a fire is burning, and a high fender on which + one can sit, stage Right, Middle; and in the wall below the fireplace, a + service hatch covered with a sliding shutter, for the passage of dishes + into the adjoining pantry. Against the wall, stage Left, is an old oak + dresser, and a small writing table across the Left Back corner. MRS + MARCH still sits behind the coffee pot, making up her daily list on + tablets with a little gold pencil fastened to her wrist. She is + personable, forty-eight, trim, well-dressed, and more matter-of-fact + than seems plausible. MR MARCH is sitting in an armchair, sideways to + the windows, smoking his pipe and reading his newspaper, with little + explosions to which no one pays any attention, because it is his daily + habit. He is a fine-looking man of fifty odd, with red-grey moustaches + and hair, both of which stiver partly by nature and partly because his + hands often push them up. MARY and JOHNNY are close to the fireplace, + stage Right. JOHNNY sits on the fender, smoking a cigarette and warming + his back. He is a commonplace looking young man, with a decided jaw, + tall, neat, soulful, who has been in the war and writes poetry. MARY is + less ordinary; you cannot tell exactly what is the matter with her. She + too is tall, a little absent, fair, and well-looking. She has a small + china dog in her hand, taken from the mantelpiece, and faces the + audience. As the curtain rises she is saying in her soft and pleasant + voice: "Well, what is the matter with us all, Johnny?" + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Stuck, as we were in the trenches—like china dogs. [He + points to the ornament in her hand.] + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Into his newspaper] Damn these people! + </p> + <p> + MARY. If there isn't an ideal left, Johnny, it's no good pretending one. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. That's what I'm saying: Bankrupt! + </p> + <p> + MARY. What do you want? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [To herself] Mutton cutlets. Johnny, will you be in to lunch? + [JOHNNY shakes his head] Mary? [MARY nods] Geof? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Into his paper] Swine! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That'll be three. [To herself] Spinach. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. If you'd just missed being killed for three blooming years for no + spiritual result whatever, you'd want something to bite on, Mary. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Jotting] Soap. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. What price the little and weak, now? Freedom and + self-determination, and all that? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Forty to one—no takers. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. It doesn't seem to worry you. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Well, what's the good? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Oh, you're a looker on, Mary. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [To his newspaper] Of all Godforsaken time-servers! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY is moved so lar as to turn and look over his shoulder a minute. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Who? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Only the Old-Un. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. This is absolutely Prussian! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Soup, lobster, chicken salad. Go to Mrs Hunt's. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. And this fellow hasn't the nous to see that if ever there were a + moment when it would pay us to take risks, and be generous—My hat! + He ought to be—knighted! [Resumes his paper.] + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Muttering] You see, even Dad can't suggest chivalry without + talking of payment for it. That shows how we've sunk. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Contemptuously] Chivalry! Pouf! Chivalry was "off" even before the + war, Johnny. Who wants chivalry? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Of all shallow-pated humbug—that sneering at chivalry's the + worst. Civilisation—such as we've got—is built on it. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Airily] Then it's built on sand. [She sits beside him on the + fender.] + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Sneering and smartness! Pah! + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Roused] I'll tell you what, Johnny, it's mucking about with + chivalry that makes your poetry rotten. [JOHNNY seizes her arm and twists + it] Shut up—that hurts. [JOHNNY twists it more] You brute! [JOHNNY + lets her arm go.] + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Ha! So you don't mind taking advantage of the fact that you can + cheek me with impunity, because you're weaker. You've given the whole show + away, Mary. Abolish chivalry and I'll make you sit up. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. What are you two quarrelling about? Will you bring home + cigarettes, Johnny—not Bogdogunov's Mamelukes—something more + Anglo-American. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. All right! D'you want any more illustrations, Mary? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Pig! [She has risen and stands rubbing her arm and recovering her + placidity, which is considerable.] + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Geof, can you eat preserved peaches? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Hell! What a policy! Um? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Can you eat preserved peaches? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Yes. [To his paper] Making the country stink in the eyes of the + world! + </p> + <p> + MARY. Nostrils, Dad, nostrils. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH wriggles, half hearing. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Muttering] Shallow idiots! Thinking we can do without chivalry! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I'm doing my best to get a parlourmaid, to-day, Mary, but these + breakfast things won't clear themselves. + </p> + <p> + MARY. I'll clear them, Mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Good! [She gets up. At the door] Knitting silk. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mother hasn't an ounce of idealism. You might make her see stars, + but never in the singular. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [To his paper] If God doesn't open the earth soon— + </p> + <p> + MARY. Is there anything special, Dad? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. This sulphurous government. [He drops the paper] Give me a + match, Mary. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + As soon as the paper is out of his hands he becomes a different—an + affable man. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [Giving him a match] D'you mind writing in here this morning, Dad? + Your study hasn't been done. There's nobody but Cook. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Lighting his pipe] Anywhere. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He slews the armchair towards the fire. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. I'll get your things, then. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Still on the fender] What do you say, Dad? Is civilisation built + on chivalry or on self-interest? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. The question is considerable, Johnny. I should say it was built + on contract, and jerry-built at that. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Yes; but why do we keep contracts when we can break them with + advantage and impunity? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. But do we keep them? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well—say we do; otherwise you'll admit there isn't such a + thing as civilisation at all. But why do we keep them? For instance, why + don't we make Mary and Mother work for us like Kafir women? We could lick + them into it. Why did we give women the vote? Why free slaves; why + anything decent for the little and weak? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, you might say it was convenient for people living in + communities. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I don't think it's convenient at all. I should like to make Mary + sweat. Why not jungle law, if there's nothing in chivalry. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Chivalry is altruism, Johnny. Of course it's quite a question + whether altruism isn't enlightened self-interest! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Oh! Damn! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + The lank and shirt-sleeved figure of MR BLY, with a pail of water and + cloths, has entered, and stands near the window, Left. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. Beg pardon, Mr March; d'you mind me cleanin' the winders here? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Not a bit. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Bankrupt of ideals. That's it! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR BLY stares at him, and puts his pail down by the window. MARY has + entered with her father's writing materials which she puts on a stool + beside him. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. Here you are, Dad! I've filled up the ink pot. Do be careful! Come + on, Johnny! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She looks curiously at MR BLY, who has begun operations at the bottom of + the left-hand window, and goes, followed by JOHNNY. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Relighting his pipe and preparing his materials] What do you + think of things, Mr Bly? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Not much, sir. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Ah! [He looks up at MR BLY, struck by his large philosophical + eyes and moth-eaten moustache] Nor I. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I rather thought that, sir, from your writin's. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Oh! Do you read? + </p> + <p> + BLY. I was at sea, once—formed the 'abit. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Read any of my novels? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Not to say all through—I've read some of your articles in the + Sunday papers, though. Make you think! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I'm at sea now—don't see dry land anywhere, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [With a smile] That's right. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. D'you find that the general impression? + </p> + <p> + BLY. No. People don't think. You 'ave to 'ave some cause for thought. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Cause enough in the papers. + </p> + <p> + BLY. It's nearer 'ome with me. I've often thought I'd like a talk with + you, sir. But I'm keepin' you. [He prepares to swab the pane.] + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Not at all. I enjoy it. Anything to put off work. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Looking at MR MARCH, then giving a wipe at the window] What's drink + to one is drought to another. I've seen two men take a drink out of the + same can—one die of it and the other get off with a pain in his + stomach. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. You've seen a lot, I expect. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! I've been on the beach in my day. [He sponges at the window] It's + given me a way o' lookin' at things that I don't find in other people. + Look at the 'Ome Office. They got no philosophy. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Pricking his ears] What? Have you had dealings with them? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Over the reprieve that was got up for my daughter. But I'm keepin' + you. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He swabs at the window, but always at the same pane, so that he does not + advance at all. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Reprieve? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! She was famous at eighteen. The Sunday Mercury was full of her, + when she was in prison. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Delicately] Dear me! I'd no idea. + </p> + <p> + BLY. She's out now; been out a fortnight. I always say that fame's + ephemereal. But she'll never settle to that weavin'. Her head got turned a + bit. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I'm afraid I'm in the dark, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Pausing—dipping his sponge in the pail and then standing with + it in his hand] Why! Don't you remember the Bly case? They sentenced 'er + to be 'anged by the neck until she was dead, for smotherin' her baby. She + was only eighteen at the time of speakin'. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Oh! yes! An inhuman business! + </p> + <p> + BLY. All! The jury recommended 'er to mercy. So they reduced it to Life. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Life! Sweet Heaven! + </p> + <p> + BLY. That's what I said; so they give her two years. I don't hold with the + Sunday Mercury, but it put that over. It's a misfortune to a girl to be + good-lookin'. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Rumpling his hair] No, no! Dash it all! Beauty's the only thing + left worth living for. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, I like to see green grass and a blue sky; but it's a mistake in + a 'uman bein'. Look at any young chap that's good-lookin'—'e's + doomed to the screen, or hair-dressin'. Same with the girls. My girl went + into an 'airdresser's at seventeen and in six months she was in trouble. + When I saw 'er with a rope round her neck, as you might say, I said to + meself: "Bly," I said, "you're responsible for this. If she 'adn't been + good-lookin'—it'd never 'eve 'appened." + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + During this speech MARY has come in with a tray, to clear the breakfast, + and stands unnoticed at the dining-table, arrested by the curious words + of MR BLY. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Your wife might not have thought that you were wholly the cause, + Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! My wife. She's passed on. But Faith—that's my girl's name—she + never was like 'er mother; there's no 'eredity in 'er on that side. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. What sort of girl is she? + </p> + <p> + BLY. One for colour—likes a bit o' music—likes a dance, and a + flower. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Interrupting softly] Dad, I was going to clear, but I'll come back + later. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Come here and listen to this! Here's a story to get your blood + up! How old was the baby, Mr Bly? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Two days—'ardly worth mentionin'. They say she 'ad the + 'ighstrikes after—an' when she comes to she says: "I've saved my + baby's life." An' that's true enough when you come to think what that sort + o' baby goes through as a rule; dragged up by somebody else's hand, or + took away by the Law. What can a workin' girl do with a baby born under + the rose, as they call it? Wonderful the difference money makes when it + comes to bein' outside the Law. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Right you are, Mr Bly. God's on the side of the big battalions. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! Religion! [His eyes roll philosophically] Did you ever read + 'Aigel? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Hegel, or Haekel? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Yes; with an aitch. There's a balance abart 'im that I like. There's + no doubt the Christian religion went too far. Turn the other cheek! What + oh! An' this Anti-Christ, Neesha, what came in with the war—he went + too far in the other direction. Neither of 'em practical men. You've got + to strike a balance, and foller it. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Balance! Not much balance about us. We just run about and jump + Jim Crow. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [With a perfunctory wipe] That's right; we 'aven't got a faith these + days. But what's the use of tellin' the Englishman to act like an angel. + He ain't either an angel or a blond beast. He's between the two, an + 'ermumphradite. Take my daughter——If I was a blond beast, I'd + turn 'er out to starve; if I was an angel, I'd starve meself to learn her + the piano. I don't do either. Why? Becos my instincts tells me not. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Yes, but my doubt is whether our instincts at this moment of the + world's history are leading us up or down. + </p> + <p> + BLY. What is up and what is down? Can you answer me that? Is it up or down + to get so soft that you can't take care of yourself? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Down. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, is it up or down to get so 'ard that you can't take care of + others? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Down. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, there you are! + </p> + <p> + MARCH. Then our instincts are taking us down? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Nao. They're strikin' a balance, unbeknownst, all the time. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. You're a philosopher, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Modestly] Well, I do a bit in that line, too. In my opinion Nature + made the individual believe he's goin' to live after'e's dead just to keep + 'im livin' while 'es alive—otherwise he'd 'a died out. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Quite a thought—quite a thought! + </p> + <p> + BLY. But I go one better than Nature. Follow your instincts is my motto. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Excuse me, Mr Bly, I think Nature got hold of that before you. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Slightly chilled] Well, I'm keepin' you. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Not at all. You're a believer in conscience, or the little voice + within. When my son was very small, his mother asked him once if he didn't + hear a little voice within, telling him what was right. [MR MARCH touches + his diaphragm] And he said "I often hear little voices in here, but they + never say anything." [MR BLY cannot laugh, but he smiles] Mary, Johnny + must have been awfully like the Government. + </p> + <p> + BLY. As a matter of fact, I've got my daughter here—in obeyance. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Where? I didn't catch. + </p> + <p> + BLY. In the kitchen. Your Cook told me you couldn't get hold of an 'ouse + parlour-maid. So I thought it was just a chance—you bein' + broadminded. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Oh! I see. What would your mother say, Mary? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Mother would say: "Has she had experience?" + </p> + <p> + BLY. I've told you about her experience. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Yes, but—as a parlour-maid. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well! She can do hair. [Observing the smile exchanged between MR + MARCH and MARY] And she's quite handy with a plate. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Tentatively] I'm a little afraid my wife would feel— + </p> + <p> + BLY. You see, in this weavin' shop—all the girls 'ave 'ad to be in + trouble, otherwise they wouldn't take 'em. [Apologetically towards MARY] + It's a kind of a disorderly 'ouse without the disorders. Excusin' the + young lady's presence. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Oh! You needn't mind me, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. And so you want her to come here? H'm! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well I remember when she was a little bit of a thing—no higher + than my knee—[He holds out his hand.] + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Suddenly moved] My God! yes. They've all been that. [To MARY] + Where's your mother? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Gone to Mrs Hunt's. Suppose she's engaged one, Dad? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, it's only a month's wages. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Softly] She won't like it. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, let's see her, Mr Bly; let's see her, if you don't mind. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Oh, I don't mind, sir, and she won't neither; she's used to bein' + inspected by now. Why! she 'ad her bumps gone over just before she came + out! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Touched on the raw again] H'm! Too bad! Mary, go and fetch her. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY, with a doubting smile, goes out. [Rising] You might give me the + details of that trial, Mr Bly. I'll see if I can't write something + that'll make people sit up. That's the way to send Youth to hell! How + can a child who's had a rope round her neck—! + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. [Who has been fumbling in his pocket, produces some yellow + paper-cuttings clipped together] Here's her references—the whole + literature of the case. And here's a letter from the chaplain in one of + the prisons sayin' she took a lot of interest in him; a nice young man, I + believe. [He suddenly brushes a tear out of his eye with the back of his + hand] I never thought I could 'a felt like I did over her bein' in prison. + Seemed a crool senseless thing—that pretty girl o' mine. All over a + baby that hadn't got used to bein' alive. Tain't as if she'd been + follerin' her instincts; why, she missed that baby something crool. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Of course, human life—even an infant's—— + </p> + <p> + BLY. I know you've got to 'ave a close time for it. But when you come to + think how they take 'uman life in Injia and Ireland, and all those other + places, it seems 'ard to come down like a cartload o' bricks on a bit of a + girl that's been carried away by a moment's abiration. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Who is reading the cuttings] H'm! What hypocrites we are! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! And 'oo can tell 'oo's the father? She never give us his name. I + think the better of 'er for that. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Shake hands, Mr Bly. So do I. [BLY wipes his hand, and MR MARCH + shakes it] Loyalty's loyalty—especially when we men benefit by it. + </p> + <p> + BLY. That's right, sir. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY has returned with FAITH BLY, who stands demure and pretty on the + far side of the table, her face an embodiment of the pathetic watchful + prison faculty of adapting itself to whatever may be best for its owner + at the moment. At this moment it is obviously best for her to look at + the ground, and yet to take in the faces of MR MARCH and MARY without + their taking her face in. A moment, for all, of considerable + embarrassment. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Suddenly] We'll, here we are! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + The remark attracts FAITH; she raises her eyes to his softly with a + little smile, and drops them again. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + So you want to be our parlour-maid? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes, please. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, Faith can remove mountains; but—er—I don't + know if she can clear tables. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I've been tellin' Mr March and the young lady what you're capable of. + Show 'em what you can do with a plate. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH takes the tray from the sideboard and begins to clear the table, + mainly by the light of nature. After a glance, MR MARCH looks out of the + window and drums his fingers on the uncleaned pane. MR BLY goes on with + his cleaning. MARY, after watching from the hearth, goes up and touches + her father's arm. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [Between him and MR BLY who is bending over his bucket, softly] + You're not watching, Dad. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. It's too pointed. + </p> + <p> + MARY. We've got to satisfy mother. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I can satisfy her better if I don't look. + </p> + <p> + MARY. You're right. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH has paused a moment and is watching them. As MARY turns, she + resumes her operations. MARY joins, and helps her finish clearing, while + the two men converse. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. Fine weather, sir, for the time of year. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. It is. The trees are growing. + </p> + <p> + BLY. All! I wouldn't be surprised to see a change of Government before + long. I've seen 'uge trees in Brazil without any roots—seen 'em come + down with a crash. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Good image, Mr Bly. Hope you're right! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, Governments! They're all the same—Butter when they're out + of power, and blood when they're in. And Lord! 'ow they do abuse other + Governments for doin' the things they do themselves. Excuse me, I'll want + her dosseer back, sir, when you've done with it. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Yes, yes. [He turns, rubbing his hands at the cleared table] + Well, that seems all right! And you can do hair? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Oh! Yes, I can do hair. [Again that little soft look, and smile so + carefully adjusted.] + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. That's important, don't you think, Mary? [MARY, accustomed to + candour, smiles dubiously.] [Brightly] Ah! And cleaning plate? What about + that? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Of course, if I had the opportunity— + </p> + <p> + MARY. You haven't—so far? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Only tin things. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Feeling a certain awkwardness] Well, I daresay we can find some + for you. Can you—er—be firm on the telephone? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Tell them you're engaged when you're not? Oh! yes. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Excellent! Let's see, Mary, what else is there? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Waiting, and house work. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Exactly. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I'm very quick. I—I'd like to come. [She looks down] I don't + care for what I'm doing now. It makes you feel your position. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Aren't they nice to you? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Oh! yes—kind; but— [She looks up] it's against my + instincts. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Oh! [Quizzically] You've got a disciple, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Rolling his eyes at his daughter] Ah! but you mustn't 'ave instincts + here, you know. You've got a chance, and you must come to stay, and do + yourself credit. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Adapting her face] Yes, I know, I'm very lucky. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Deprecating thanks and moral precept] That's all right! Only, + Mr Bly, I can't absolutely answer for Mrs March. She may think— + </p> + <p> + MARY. There is Mother; I heard the door. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Taking up his pail] I quite understand, sir; I've been a married man + myself. It's very queer the way women look at things. I'll take her away + now, and come back presently and do these other winders. You can talk it + over by yourselves. But if you do see your way, sir, I shan't forget it in + an 'urry. To 'ave the responsibility of her—really, it's dreadful. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH's face has grown sullen during this speech, but it clears up in + another little soft look at MR MARCH, as she and MR BLY go out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, Mary, have I done it? + </p> + <p> + MARY. You have, Dad. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] Pathetic little figure! + Such infernal inhumanity! + </p> + <p> + MARY. How are you going to put it to mother? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Tell her the story, and pitch it strong. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Mother's not impulsive. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We must tell her, or she'll think me mad. + </p> + <p> + MARY. She'll do that, anyway, dear. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Here she is! Stand by! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He runs his arm through MARY's, and they sit on the fender, at bay. MRS + MARCH enters, Left. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, what luck? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. None. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Unguardedly] Good! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. What? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Cheerfully] Well, the fact is, Mary and I have caught one for + 'you; Mr Bly's daughter— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Are you out of your senses? Don't you know that she's the girl + who— + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. That's it. She wants a lift. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Geof! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, don't we want a maid? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Ineffably] Ridiculous! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We tested her, didn't we, Mary? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Crossing to the bell, and ringing] You'll just send for Mr Bly + and get rid of her again. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Joan, if we comfortable people can't put ourselves a little out + of the way to give a helping hand— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. To girls who smother their babies? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Joan, I revolt. I won't be a hypocrite and a Pharisee. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Well, for goodness sake let me be one. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [As the door opens]. Here's Cook! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK stands—sixty, stout, and comfortable with a crumpled smile. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. Did you ring, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We're in a moral difficulty, Cook, so naturally we come to you. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK beams. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Impatiently] Nothing of the sort, Cook; it's a question of + common sense. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That girl, Faith Bly, wants to come here as parlour-maid. + Absurd! + </p> + <p> + MARCH. You know her story, Cook? I want to give the poor girl a chance. + Mrs March thinks it's taking chances. What do you say? + </p> + <p> + COCK. Of course, it is a risk, sir; but there! you've got to take 'em to + get maids nowadays. If it isn't in the past, it's in the future. I daresay + I could learn 'er. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It's not her work, Cook, it's her instincts. A girl who + smothered a baby that she oughtn't to have had— + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Remonstrant] If she hadn't had it how could she have smothered + it? + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Soothingly] Perhaps she's repented, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Of course she's repented. But did you ever know repentance + change anybody, Cook? + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Smiling] Well, generally it's a way of gettin' ready for the next. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Exactly. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. If we never get another chance because we repent— + </p> + <p> + COOK. I always think of Master Johnny, ma'am, and my jam; he used to + repent so beautiful, dear little feller—such a conscience! I never + could bear to lock it away. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Cook, you're wandering. I'm surprised at your encouraging the + idea; I really am. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + Cook plaits her hands. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Cook's been in the family longer than I have—haven't you, + Cook? [COOK beams] She knows much more about a girl like that than we do. + </p> + <p> + COOK. We had a girl like her, I remember, in your dear mother's time, Mr + Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. How did she turn out? + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! She didn't. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. There! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, I can't bear behaving like everybody else. Don't you think + we might give her a chance, Cook? + </p> + <p> + COOK. My 'eart says yes, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Ha! + </p> + <p> + COOK. And my 'ead says no, sir. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Yes! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Strike your balance, Cook. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK involuntarily draws her joined hands sharply in upon her amplitude. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + Well?... I didn't catch the little voice within. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Ask Master Johnny, sir; he's been in the war. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [To MARY] Get Johnny. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. What on earth has the war to do with it? + </p> + <p> + COOK. The things he tells me, ma'am, is too wonderful for words. He's 'ad + to do with prisoners and generals, every sort of 'orror. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Cook's quite right. The war destroyed all our ideals and + probably created the baby. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It didn't smother it; or condemn the girl. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] The more I think of that—! + [He turns away.] + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Indicating her husband] You see, Cook, that's the mood in + which I have to engage a parlour-maid. What am I to do with your master? + </p> + <p> + COOK. It's an 'ealthy rage, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I'm tired of being the only sober person in this house. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Reproachfully] Oh! ma'am, I never touch a drop. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I didn't mean anything of that sort. But they do break out so. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Not Master Johnny. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Johnny! He's the worst of all. His poetry is nothing but one + long explosion. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Coming from the window] I say We ought to have faith and jump. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. If we do have Faith, we shall jump. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Blankly] Of course, in the Bible they 'ad faith, and just look what + it did to them! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I mean faith in human instincts, human nature, Cook. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Scandalised] Oh! no, sir, not human nature; I never let that get + the upper hand. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. You talk to Mr Bly. He's a remarkable man. + </p> + <p> + COOK. I do, sir, every fortnight when he does the kitchen windows. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, doesn't he impress you? + </p> + <p> + COOK. Ah! When he's got a drop o' stout in 'im—Oh! dear! [She smiles + placidly.] + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY has come in. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, Johnny, has Mary told you? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Looking at his face] Now, my dear boy, don't be hasty and + foolish! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Of course you ought to take her, Mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Fixing him] Have you seen her, Johnny? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. She's in the hall, poor little devil, waiting for her sentence. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. There are plenty of other chances, Johnny. Why on earth should + we—? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mother, it's just an instance. When something comes along that + takes a bit of doing—Give it to the other chap! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Bravo, Johnny! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Drily] Let me see, which of us will have to put up with her + shortcomings—Johnny or I? + </p> + <p> + MARY. She looks quick, Mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Girls pick up all sorts of things in prison. We can hardly + expect her to be honest. You don't mind that, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. It's a chance to make something decent out of her. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I can't understand this passion for vicarious heroism, Johnny. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Vicarious! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Well, where do you come in? You'll make poems about the + injustice of the Law. Your father will use her in a novel. She'll wear + Mary's blouses, and everybody will be happy—except Cook and me. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Hang it all, Joan, you might be the Great Public itself! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I am—get all the kicks and none of the ha'pence. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. We'll all help you. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. For Heaven's sake—no, Johnny! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Well, make up your mind! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It was made up long ago. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Gloomily] The more I see of things the more disgusting they seem. + I don't see what we're living for. All right. Chuck the girl out, and + let's go rooting along with our noses in the dirt. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Steady, Johnny! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well, Dad, there was one thing anyway we learned out there— + When a chap was in a hole—to pull him out, even at a risk. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. There are people who—the moment you pull them out—jump + in again. + </p> + <p> + MARY. We can't tell till we've tried, Mother. + </p> + <p> + COOK. It's wonderful the difference good food'll make, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Well, you're all against me. Have it your own way, and when you + regret it—remember me! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We will—we will! That's settled, then. Bring her in and + tell her. We'll go on to the terrace. + </p> + <p> + He goes out through the window, followed by JOHNNY. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Opening the door] Come in, please. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH enters and stands beside COOK, close to the door. MARY goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Matter of fact in defeat as in victory] You want to come to + us, I hear. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. And you don't know much? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Softly] Say ma'am, dearie. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Cook is going to do her best for you. Are you going to do yours + for us? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With a quick look up] Yes—ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Can you begin at once? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Well, then, Cook will show you where things are kept, and how + to lay the table and that. Your wages will be thirty until we see where we + are. Every other Sunday, and Thursday afternoon. What about dresses? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Looking at her dress] I've only got this—I had it before, of + course, it hasn't been worn. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Very neat. But I meant for the house. You've no money, I + suppose? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Only one pound thirteen, ma'am. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. We shall have to find you some dresses, then. Cook will take + you to-morrow to Needham's. You needn't wear a cap unless you like. Well, + I hope you'll get on. I'll leave you with Cook now. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + After one look at the girl, who is standing motionless, she goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. [With a jerk, as if coming out of plaster of Paris] She's never + been in prison! + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Comfortably] Well, my dear, we can't all of us go everywhere, + 'owever 'ard we try! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She is standing back to the dresser, and turns to it, opening the + right-hand drawer. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. Now, 'ere's the wine. The master likes 'is glass. And 'ere's the + spirits in the tantaliser 'tisn't ever kept locked, in case Master Johnny + should bring a friend in. Have you noticed Master Johnny? [FAITH nods] Ah! + He's a dear boy; and wonderful high-principled since he's been in the war. + He'll come to me sometimes and say: "Cook, we're all going to the devil!" + They think 'ighly of 'im as a poet. He spoke up for you beautiful. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Oh! He spoke up for me? + </p> + <p> + COOK. Well, of course they had to talk you over. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I wonder if they think I've got feelings. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Regarding her moody, pretty face] Why! We all have feelin's! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Not below three hundred a year. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Scandalised] Dear, dear! Where were you educated? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I wasn't. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Tt! Well—it's wonderful what a change there is in girls since + my young days [Pulling out a drawer] Here's the napkins. You change the + master's every day at least because of his moustache and the others every + two days, but always clean ones Sundays. Did you keep Sundays in there? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Smiling] Yes. Longer chapel. + </p> + <p> + COOK. It'll be a nice change for you, here. They don't go to Church; + they're agnosticals. [Patting her shoulder] How old are you? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Twenty. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Think of that—and such a life! Now, dearie, I'm your friend. + Let the present bury the past—as the sayin' is. Forget all about + yourself, and you'll be a different girl in no time. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Do you want to be a different woman? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK is taken flat aback by so sudden a revelation of the pharisaism of + which she has not been conscious. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. Well! You are sharp! [Opening another dresser drawer] Here's the + vinegar! And here's the sweets, and [rather anxiously] you mustn't eat + them. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I wasn't in for theft. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Shocked at such rudimentary exposure of her natural misgivings] No, + no! But girls have appetites. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. They didn't get much chance where I've been. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Ah! You must tell me all about it. Did you have adventures? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. There isn't such a thing in a prison. + </p> + <p> + COOK. You don't say! Why, in the books they're escapin' all the time. But + books is books; I've always said so. How were the men? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Never saw a man—only a chaplain. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Dear, dear! They must be quite fresh to you, then! How long was it? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Two years. + </p> + <p> + COOK. And never a day out? What did you do all the time? Did they learn + you anything? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Weaving. That's why I hate it. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Tell me about your poor little baby. I'm sure you meant it for the + best. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Sardonically] Yes; I was afraid they'd make it a ward in Chancery. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! dear—what things do come into your head! Why! No one can + take a baby from its mother. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Except the Law. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Tt! Tt! Well! Here's the pickled onions. Miss Mary loves 'em! Now + then, let me see you lay the cloth. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She takes a tablecloth out, hands it to FAITH, and while the girl begins + to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + And here's where we pass the dishes through into the pantry. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + The door is opened, and MRS MARCH'S voice says: "Cook—a minute!" + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + [Preparing to go] Salt cellars one at each corner—four, and the + peppers. [From the door] Now the decanters. Oh! you'll soon get on. [MRS + MARCH "Cook!"] Yes, ma'am. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes. FAITH, left alone, stands motionless, biting her pretty lip, + her eyes mutinous. Hearing footsteps, she looks up. MR BLY, with his + pail and cloths, appears outside. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. [Preparing to work, while FAITH prepares to set the salt cellars] So + you've got it! You never know your luck. Up to-day and down to-morrow. + I'll 'ave a glass over this to-night. What d'you get? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Thirty. + </p> + <p> + BLY. It's not the market price, still, you're not the market article. Now, + put a good heart into it and get to know your job; you'll find Cook full + o' philosophy if you treat her right—she can make a dumplin' with + anybody. But look 'ere; you confine yourself to the ladies! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't want your advice, father. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I know parents are out of date; still, I've put up with a lot on your + account, so gimme a bit of me own back. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't know whether I shall like this. I've been shut up so long. + I want to see some life. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, that's natural. But I want you to do well. I suppose you'll be + comin' 'ome to fetch your things to-night? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I'll have a flower for you. What'd you like—daffydils? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No; one with a scent to it. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I'll ask at Mrs Bean's round the corner. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She'll pick 'em out from what's over. Never 'ad much nose for a flower + meself. I often thought you'd like a flower when you was in prison. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. [A little touched] Did you? Did you really? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! I suppose I've drunk more glasses over your bein' in there than + over anything that ever 'appened to me. Why! I couldn't relish the war for + it! And I suppose you 'ad none to relish. Well, it's over. So, put an + 'eart into it. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I'll try. + </p> + <p> + BLY. "There's compensation for everything," 'Aigel says. At least, if it + wasn't 'Aigel it was one o' the others. I'll move on to the study now. Ah! + He's got some winders there lookin' right over the country. And a + wonderful lot o' books, if you feel inclined for a read one of these days. + </p> + <p> + COOK'S Voice. Faith! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH sets down the salt cellar in her hand, puts her tongue out a very + little, and goes out into the hall. MR BLY is gathering up his pail and + cloths when MR MARCH enters at the window. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. So it's fixed up, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Raising himself] I'd like to shake your 'and, sir. [They shake + hands] It's a great weight off my mind. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. It's rather a weight on my wife's, I'm afraid. But we must hope + for the best. The country wants rain, but—I doubt if we shall get it + with this Government. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! We want the good old times-when you could depend on the seasons. + The further you look back the more dependable the times get; 'ave you + noticed that, sir? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Suddenly] Suppose they'd hanged your daughter, Mr Bly. What + would you have done? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, to be quite frank, I should 'ave got drunk on it. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Public opinion's always in advance of the Law. I think your + daughter's a most pathetic little figure. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Her looks are against her. I never found a man that didn't. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [A little disconcerted] Well, we'll try and give her a good show + here. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Taking up his pail] I'm greatly obliged; she'll appreciate anything + you can do for her. [He moves to the door and pauses there to say] Fact is—her + winders wants cleanin', she 'ad a dusty time in there. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I'm sure she had. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR BLY passes out, and MR MARCH busies himself in gathering up his + writing things preparatory to seeking his study. While he is so engaged + FAITH comes in. Glancing at him, she resumes her placing of the + decanters, as JOHNNY enters by the window, and comes down to his father + by the hearth. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Privately] If you haven't begun your morning, Dad, you might just + tell me what you think of these verses. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He puts a sheet of notepaper before his father, who takes it and begins + to con over the verses thereon, while JOHNNY looks carefully at his + nails. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Er—I—I like the last line awfully, Johnny. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Gloomily] What about the other eleven? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Tentatively] Well—old man, I—er—think perhaps + it'd be stronger if they were out. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Good God! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He takes back the sheet of paper, clutches his brow, and crosses to the + door. As he passes FAITH, she looks up at him with eyes full of + expression. JOHNNY catches the look, jibs ever so little, and goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK'S VOICE. [Through the door, which is still ajar] Faith! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH puts the decanters on the table, and goes quickly out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Who has seen this little by-play—to himself—in a + voice of dismay] Oh! oh! I wonder! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + CURTAIN. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> + <blockquote> + <p> + A fortnight later in the MARCH'S dining-room; a day of violent April + showers. Lunch is over and the table littered with, remains— + twelve baskets full. MR MARCH and MARY have lingered. MR MARCH is + standing by the hearth where a fire is burning, filling a fountain pen. + MARY sits at the table opposite, pecking at a walnut. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Examining his fingers] What it is to have an inky present! + Suffer with me, Mary! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY. "Weep ye no more, sad Fountains! Why need ye flow so fast?" + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Pocketing his pen] Coming with me to the British Museum? I want + to have a look at the Assyrian reliefs. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Dad, have you noticed Johnny? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I have. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Then only Mother hasn't. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I've always found your mother extremely good at seeming not to + notice things, Mary. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Faith! She's got on very fast this fortnight. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. The glad eye, Mary. I got it that first morning. + </p> + <p> + MARY. You, Dad? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. No, no! Johnny got it, and I got him getting it. + </p> + <p> + MARY. What are you going to do about it? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. What does one do with a glad eye that belongs to some one else? + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Laughing] No. But, seriously, Dad, Johnny's not like you and me. + Why not speak to Mr Bly? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Mr Bly's eyes are not glad. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Dad! Do be serious! Johnny's capable of anything except a sense of + humour. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. The girl's past makes it impossible to say anything to her. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Well, I warn you. Johnny's very queer just now; he's in the "lose + the world to save your soul" mood. It really is too bad of that girl. + After all, we did what most people wouldn't. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Come! Get your hat on, Mary, or we shan't make the Tube before + the next shower. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Going to the door] Something must be done. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. As you say, something—Ah! Mr Bly! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR BLY, in precisely the same case as a fortnight ago, with his pail and + cloths, is coming in. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. Afternoon, sir! Shall I be disturbing you if I do the winders here? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Not at all. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR BLY crosses to the windows. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [Pointing to MR BLY's back] Try! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Showery, sir. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Ah! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Very tryin' for winders. [Resting] My daughter givin' satisfaction, I + hope? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [With difficulty] Er—in her work, I believe, coming on + well. But the question is, Mr Bly, do—er—any of us ever really + give satisfaction except to ourselves? + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Taking it as an invitation to his philosophical vein] Ah! that's one + as goes to the roots of 'uman nature. There's a lot of disposition in all + of us. And what I always say is: One man's disposition is another man's + indisposition. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. By George! Just hits the mark. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Filling his sponge] Question is: How far are you to give rein to + your disposition? When I was in Durban, Natal, I knew a man who had the + biggest disposition I ever come across. 'E struck 'is wife, 'e smoked + opium, 'e was a liar, 'e gave all the rein 'e could, and yet withal one of + the pleasantest men I ever met. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Perhaps in giving rein he didn't strike you. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [With a big wipe, following his thought] He said to me once: "Joe," + he said, "if I was to hold meself in, I should be a devil." There's where + you get it. Policemen, priests, prisoners. Cab'net Ministers, any one who + leads an unnatural life, see how it twists 'em. You can't suppress a thing + without it swellin' you up in another place. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. And the moral of that is—? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Follow your instincts. You see—if I'm not keepin' you—now + that we ain't got no faith, as we were sayin' the other day, no Ten + Commandments in black an' white—we've just got to be 'uman bein's— + raisin' Cain, and havin' feelin' hearts. What's the use of all these lofty + ideas that you can't live up to? Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, Democracy—see + what comes o' fightin' for 'em! 'Ere we are-wipin' out the lot. We thought + they was fixed stars; they was only comets—hot air. No; trust 'uman + nature, I say, and follow your instincts. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We were talking of your daughter—I—I— + </p> + <p> + BLY. There's a case in point. Her instincts was starved goin' on for three + years, because, mind you, they kept her hangin' about in prison months + before they tried her. I read your article, and I thought to meself after + I'd finished: Which would I feel smallest—if I was—the Judge, + the Jury, or the 'Ome Secretary? It was a treat, that article! They ought + to abolish that in'uman "To be hanged by the neck until she is dead." It's + my belief they only keep it because it's poetry; that and the wigs—they're + hard up for a bit of beauty in the Courts of Law. Excuse my 'and, sir; I + do thank you for that article. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He extends his wiped hand, which MR MARCH shakes with the feeling that + he is always shaking Mr. BLY's hand. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. But, apropos of your daughter, Mr Bly. I suppose none of us ever + change our natures. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Again responding to the appeal that he senses to his philosophical + vein] Ah! but 'oo can see what our natures are? Why, I've known people + that could see nothin' but theirselves and their own families, unless they + was drunk. At my daughter's trial, I see right into the lawyers, judge and + all. There she was, hub of the whole thing, and all they could see of her + was 'ow far she affected 'em personally—one tryin' to get 'er + guilty, the other tryin' to get 'er off, and the judge summin' 'er up + cold-blooded. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. But that's what they're paid for, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! But which of 'em was thinkin' "'Ere's a little bit o' warm life + on its own. 'Ere's a little dancin' creature. What's she feelin', wot's + 'er complaint?"—impersonal-like. I like to see a man do a bit of + speculatin', with his mind off of 'imself, for once. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. "The man that hath not speculation in his soul." + </p> + <p> + BLY. That's right, sir. When I see a mangy cat or a dog that's lost, or a + fellow-creature down on his luck, I always try to put meself in his place. + It's a weakness I've got. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Warmly] A deuced good one. Shake— + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He checks himself, but MR BLY has wiped his hand and extended it. While + the shake is in progress MARY returns, and, having seen it to a safe + conclusion, speaks. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. Coming, Dad? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Excuse me, Mr Bly, I must away. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He goes towards the door, and BLY dips his sponge. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [In a low voice] Well? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Mr Bly is like all the greater men I know—he can't listen. + </p> + <p> + MARY. But you were shaking— + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Yes; it's a weakness we have—every three minutes. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Bubbling] Dad—Silly! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Very! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + As they go out MR BLY pauses in his labours to catch, as it were, a + philosophical reflection. He resumes the wiping of a pane, while + quietly, behind him, FAITH comes in with a tray. She is dressed now in + lilac-coloured linen, without a cap, and looks prettier than ever. She + puts the tray down on the sideboard with a clap that attracts her + father's attention, and stands contemplating the debris on the table. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. Winders! There they are! Clean, dirty! All sorts—All round yer! + Winders! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With disgust] Food! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! Food and winders! That's life! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Eight times a day four times for them and four times for us. I hate + food! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She puts a chocolate into her mouth. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. 'Ave some philosophy. I might just as well hate me winders. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Well! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She begins to clear. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. [Regarding her] Look 'ere, my girl! Don't you forget that there ain't + many winders in London out o' which they look as philosophical as these + here. Beggars can't be choosers. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Sullenly] Oh! Don't go on at me! + </p> + <p> + BLY. They spoiled your disposition in that place, I'm afraid. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Try it, and see what they do with yours. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, I may come to it yet. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. You'll get no windows to look out of there; a little bit of a thing + with bars to it, and lucky if it's not thick glass. [Standing still and + gazing past MR BLY] No sun, no trees, no faces—people don't pass in + the sky, not even angels. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! But you shouldn't brood over it. I knew a man in Valpiraso that + 'ad spent 'arf 'is life in prison-a jolly feller; I forget what 'e'd done, + somethin' bloody. I want to see you like him. Aren't you happy here? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It's right enough, so long as I get out. + </p> + <p> + BLY. This Mr March—he's like all these novel-writers—thinks 'e + knows 'uman nature, but of course 'e don't. Still, I can talk to 'im—got + an open mind, and hates the Gover'ment. That's the two great things. Mrs + March, so far as I see, 'as got her head screwed on much tighter. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. She has. + </p> + <p> + BLY. What's the young man like? He's a long feller. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Johnny? [With a shrug and a little smile] Johnny. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well, that gives a very good idea of him. They say 'es a poet; does + 'e leave 'em about? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I've seen one or two. + </p> + <p> + BLY. What's their tone? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. All about the condition of the world; and the moon. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Ah! Depressin'. And the young lady? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH shrugs her shoulders. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + Um—'ts what I thought. She 'asn't moved much with the times. She + thinks she 'as, but she 'asn't. Well, they seem a pleasant family. Leave + you to yourself. 'Ow's Cook? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Not much company. + </p> + <p> + BLY. More body than mind? Still, you get out, don't you? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With a slow smile] Yes. [She gives a sudden little twirl, and puts + her hands up to her hair before the mirror] My afternoon to-day. It's fine + in the streets, after-being in there. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Well! Don't follow your instincts too much, that's all! I must get on + to the drawin' room now. There's a shower comin'. [Philosophically] It's + 'ardly worth while to do these winders. You clean 'em, and they're dirty + again in no time. It's like life. And people talk o' progress. What a + sooperstition! Of course there ain't progress; it's a world-without-end + affair. You've got to make up your mind to it, and not be discouraged. All + this depression comes from 'avin' 'igh 'opes. 'Ave low 'opes, and you'll + be all right. + </p> + <p> + He takes up his pail and cloths and moves out through the windows. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH puts another chocolate into her mouth, and taking up a flower, + twirls round with it held to her nose, and looks at herself in the glass + over the hearth. She is still looking at herself when she sees in the + mirror a reflection of JOHNNY, who has come in. Her face grows just a + little scared, as if she had caught the eye of a warder peering through + the peep-hole of her cell door, then brazens, and slowly sweetens as she + turns round to him. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Sorry! [He has a pipe in his hand and wears a Norfolk jacket] Fond + of flowers? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. [She puts back the flower] Ever so! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Stick to it. Put it in your hair; it'll look jolly. How do you + like it here? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It's quiet. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Ha! I wonder if you've got the feeling I have. We've both had + hell, you know; I had three years of it, out there, and you've had three + years of it here. The feeling that you can't catch up; can't live fast + enough to get even. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH nods. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + Nothing's big enough; nothing's worth while enough—is it? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't know. I know I'd like to bite. She draws her lips back. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Ah! Tell me all about your beastly time; it'll do you good. You + and I are different from anybody else in this house. We've lived they've + just vegetated. Come on; tell me! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH, who up to now has looked on him as a young male, stares at him + for the first time without sex in her eyes. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. I can't. We didn't talk in there, you know. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Were you fond of the chap who—? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No. Yes. I suppose I was—once. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. He must have been rather a swine. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. He's dead. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Sorry! Oh, sorry! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I've forgotten all that. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Beastly things, babies; and absolutely unnecessary in the present + state of the world. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With a faint smile] My baby wasn't beastly; but I—I got + upset. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well, I should think so! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. My friend in the manicure came and told me about hers when I was + lying in the hospital. She couldn't have it with her, so it got neglected + and died. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Um! I believe that's quite common. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. And she told me about another girl—the Law took her baby from + her. And after she was gone, I—got all worked up— [She + hesitates, then goes swiftly on] And I looked at mine; it was asleep just + here, quite close. I just put out my arm like that, over its face—quite + soft— I didn't hurt it. I didn't really. [She suddenly swallows, and + her lips quiver] I didn't feel anything under my arm. And—and a + beast of a nurse came on me, and said "You've smothered your baby, you + wretched girl!" + </p> + <p> + I didn't want to kill it—I only wanted to save it from living. And + when I looked at it, I went off screaming. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I nearly screamed when I saved my first German from living. I + never felt the same again. They say the human race has got to go on, but I + say they've first got to prove that the human race wants to. Would you + rather be alive or dead? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Alive. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. But would you have in prison? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't know. You can't tell anything in there. [With sudden + vehemence] I wish I had my baby back, though. It was mine; and I—I + don't like thinking about it. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I know. I hate to think about anything I've killed, really. At + least, I should—but it's better not to think. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I could have killed that judge. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Did he come the heavy father? That's what I can't stand. When they + jaw a chap and hang him afterwards. Or was he one of the joking ones? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I've sat in my cell and cried all night—night after night, I + have. [With a little laugh] I cried all the softness out of me. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You never believed they were going to hang you, did you? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I didn't care if they did—not then. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [With a reflective grunt] You had a much worse time than I. You + were lonely— + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Have you been in a prison, ever? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. No, thank God! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It's awfully clean. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You bet. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. And it's stone cold. It turns your heart. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Ah! Did you ever see a stalactite? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. What's that? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. In caves. The water drops like tears, and each drop has some sort + of salt, and leaves it behind till there's just a long salt petrified drip + hanging from the roof. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Ah! [Staring at him] I used to stand behind my door. I'd stand + there sometimes I don't know how long. I'd listen and listen—the + noises are all hollow in a prison. You'd think you'd get used to being + shut up, but I never did. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY utters a deep grunt. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + It's awful the feeling you get here-so tight and chokey. People who are + free don't know what it's like to be shut up. If I'd had a proper window + even—When you can see things living, it makes you feel alive. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Catching her arm] We'll make you feel alive again. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH stares at him; sex comes back to her eyes. She looks down. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + I bet you used to enjoy life, before. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Clasping her hands] Oh! yes, I did. And I love getting out now. + I've got a fr— [She checks herself] The streets are beautiful, + aren't they? Do you know Orleens Street? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Doubtful] No-o.... Where? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. At the corner out of the Regent. That's where we had our shop. I + liked the hair-dressing. We had fun. Perhaps I've seen you before. Did you + ever come in there? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. No. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I'd go back there; only they wouldn't take me—I'm too + conspicuous now. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I expect you're well out of that. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With a sigh] But I did like it. I felt free. We had an hour off in + the middle of the day; you could go where you liked; and then, after hours—I + love the streets at night—all lighted. Olga—that's one of the + other girls—and I used to walk about for hours. That's life! Fancy! + I never saw a street for more than two years. Didn't you miss them in the + war? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I missed grass and trees more—the trees! All burnt, and + splintered. Gah! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes, I like trees too; anything beautiful, you know. I think the + parks are lovely—but they might let you pick the flowers. But the + lights are best, really—they make you feel happy. And music—I + love an organ. There was one used to come and play outside the prison—before + I was tried. It sounded so far away and lovely. If I could 'ave met the + man that played that organ, I'd have kissed him. D'you think he did it on + purpose? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. He would have, if he'd been me. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He says it unconsciously, but FAITH is instantly conscious of the + implication. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. He'd rather have had pennies, though. It's all earning; working and + earning. I wish I were like the flowers. [She twirls the dower in her + hand] Flowers don't work, and they don't get put in prison. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Putting his arm round her] Never mind! Cheer up! You're only a + kid. You'll have a good time yet. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH leans against him, as it were indifferently, clearly expecting him + to kiss her, but he doesn't. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. When I was a little girl I had a cake covered with sugar. I ate the + sugar all off and then I didn't want the cake—not much. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Suddenly, removing his arm] Gosh! If I could write a poem that + would show everybody what was in the heart of everybody else—! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It'd be too long for the papers, wouldn't it? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. It'd be too strong. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Besides, you don't know. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + Her eyelids go up. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Staring at her] I could tell what's in you now. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. What? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You feel like a flower that's been picked. + </p> + <p> + FAITH's smile is enigmatic. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Suddenly] Why do you go on about me so? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Because you're weak—little and weak. [Breaking out again] + Damn it! We went into the war to save the little and weak; at least we + said so; and look at us now! The bottom's out of all that. [Bitterly] + There isn't a faith or an illusion left. Look here! I want to help you. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Surprisingly] My baby was little and weak. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You never meant—You didn't do it for your own advantage. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It didn't know it was alive. [Suddenly] D'you think I'm pretty? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. As pie. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Then you'd better keep away, hadn't you? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Why? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. You might want a bite. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Oh! I can trust myself. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Turning to the window, through which can be seen the darkening of + a shower] It's raining. Father says windows never stay clean. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + They stand dose together, unaware that COOK has thrown up the service + shutter, to see why the clearing takes so long. Her astounded head and + shoulders pass into view just as FAITH suddenly puts up her face. + JOHNNY'S lips hesitate, then move towards her forehead. But her face + shifts, and they find themselves upon her lips. Once there, the emphasis + cannot help but be considerable. COOK'S mouth falls open. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. Oh! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She closes the shutter, vanishing. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. What was that? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Nothing. [Breaking away] Look here! I didn't mean—I oughtn't + to have—Please forget it! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With a little smile] Didn't you like it? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Yes—that's just it. I didn't mean to It won't do. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Why not? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. No, no! It's just the opposite of what—No, no! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He goes to the door, wrenches it open and goes out. FAITH, still with + that little half-mocking, half-contented smile, resumes the clearing of + the table. She is interrupted by the entrance through the French windows + of MR MARCH and MARY, struggling with one small wet umbrella. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [Feeling his sleeve] Go and change, Dad. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Women's shoes! We could have made the Tube but for your shoes. + </p> + <p> + MARY. It was your cold feet, not mine, dear. [Looking at FAITH and nudging + him] Now! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes towards the door, turns to look at FAITH still clearing the + table, and goes out. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [In front of the hearth] Nasty spring weather, Faith. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Still in the mood of the kiss] Yes, Sir. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Sotto voce] "In the spring a young man's fancy." I—I + wanted to say something to you in a friendly way. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH regards him as he struggles on. Because I feel very friendly + towards you. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. So you won't take what I say in bad part? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. After what you've been through, any man with a sense of chivalry— + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH gives a little shrug. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + Yes, I know—but we don't all support the Government. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't know anything about the Government. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Side-tracked on to his hobby] Ah I forgot. You saw no + newspapers. But you ought to pick up the threads now. What paper does Cook + take? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. "COSY." + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. "Cosy"? I don't seem— What are its politics? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It hasn't any—only funny bits, and fashions. It's full of + corsets. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. What does Cook want with corsets? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. She likes to think she looks like that. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. By George! Cook an idealist! Let's see!—er—I was + speaking of chivalry. My son, you know—er—my son has got it. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Badly? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Suddenly alive to the fact that she is playing with him] I + started by being sorry for you. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Aren't you, any more? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Look here, my child! + </p> + <p> + FAITH looks up at him. [Protectingly] We want to do our best for you. Now, + don't spoil it by— Well, you know! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Suddenly] Suppose you'd been stuffed away in a hole for years! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Side-tracked again] Just what your father said. The more I see + of Mr Bly, the more wise I think him. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. About other people. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. What sort of bringing up did he give you? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH smiles wryly and shrugs her shoulders. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. H'm! Here comes the sun again! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Taking up the flower which is lying on the table] May I have this + flower? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Of Course. You can always take what flowers you like—that + is—if—er— + </p> + <p> + FAITH. If Mrs March isn't about? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I meant, if it doesn't spoil the look of the table. We must all + be artists in our professions, mustn't we? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. My profession was cutting hair. I would like to cut yours. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH'S hands instinctively go up to it. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. You mightn't think it, but I'm talking to you seriously. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I was, too. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Out of his depth] Well! I got wet; I must go and change. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH follows him with her eyes as he goes out, and resumes the clearing + of the table. She has paused and is again smelling at the flower when + she hears the door, and quickly resumes her work. It is MRS MARCH, who + comes in and goes to the writing table, Left Back, without looking at + FAITH. She sits there writing a cheque, while FAITH goes on clearing. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Suddenly, in an unruffled voice] I have made your cheque out + for four pounds. It's rather more than the fortnight, and a month's + notice. There'll be a cab for you in an hour's time. Can you be ready by + then? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Astonished] What for—ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. You don't suit. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Why? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Do you wish for the reason? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Breathless] Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Cook saw you just now. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Blankly] Oh! I didn't mean her to. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Obviously. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I—I— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Now go and pack up your things. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. He asked me to be a friend to him. He said he was lonely here. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Don't be ridiculous. Cook saw you kissing him with p—p— + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Quickly] Not with pep. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I was going to say "passion." Now, go quietly. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Where am I to go? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. You will have four pounds, and you can get another place. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. How? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That's hardly my affair. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Tossing her head] All right! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I'll speak to your father, if he isn't gone. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Why do you send me away—just for a kiss! What's a kiss? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That will do. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Desperately] He wanted to—to save me. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. You know perfectly well people can only save themselves. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't care for your son; I've got a young—[She checks + herself] I—I'll leave your son alone, if he leaves me. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH rings the bell on the table. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + [Desolately] Well? [She moves towards the door. Suddenly holding out the + flower] Mr March gave me that flower; would you like it back? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Don't be absurd! If you want more money till you get a place, + let me know. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I won't trouble you. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes out. MRS MARCH goes to the window and drums her fingers on the + pane. COOK enters. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Cook, if Mr Bly's still here, I want to see him. Oh! And it's + three now. Have a cab at four o'clock. + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Almost tearful] Oh, ma'am—anybody but Master Johnny, and I'd + 'ave been a deaf an' dummy. Poor girl! She's not responsive, I daresay. + Suppose I was to speak to Master Johnny? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. No, no, Cook! Where's Mr Bly? + </p> + <p> + COOK. He's done his windows; he's just waiting for his money. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Then get him; and take that tray. + </p> + <p> + COOK. I remember the master kissin' me, when he was a boy. But then he + never meant anything; so different from Master Johnny. Master Johnny takes + things to 'eart. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Just so, Cook. + </p> + <p> + COOK. There's not an ounce of vice in 'im. It's all his goodness, dear + little feller. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That's the danger, with a girl like that. + </p> + <p> + COOK. It's eatin' hearty all of a sudden that's made her poptious. But + there, ma'am, try her again. Master Johnny'll be so cut up! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. No playing with fire, Cook. We were foolish to let her come. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! dear, he will be angry with me. If you hadn't been in the + kitchen and heard me, ma'am, I'd ha' let it pass. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That would have been very wrong of you. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Ah! But I'd do a lot of wrong things for Master Johnny. There's + always some one you'll go wrong for! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Well, get Mr Bly; and take that tray, there's a good soul. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK goes out with the tray; and while waiting, MRS MARCH finishes + clearing the table. She has not quite finished when MR BLY enters. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. Your service, ma'am! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [With embarrassment] I'm very sorry, Mr Bly, but circumstances + over which I have no control— + </p> + <p> + BLY. [With deprecation] Ah! we all has them. The winders ought to be done + once a week now the Spring's on 'em. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. No, no; it's your daughter— + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Deeply] Not been given' way to'er instincts, I do trust. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Yes. I've just had to say good-bye to her. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Very blank] Nothing to do with property, I hope? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. No, no! Giddiness with my son. It's impossible; she really must + learn. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Oh! but 'oo's to learn 'er? Couldn't you learn your son instead? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. No. My son is very high-minded. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Dubiously] I see. How am I goin' to get over this? Shall I tell you + what I think, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I'm afraid it'll be no good. + </p> + <p> + BLY. That's it. Character's born, not made. You can clean yer winders and + clean 'em, but that don't change the colour of the glass. My father would + have given her a good hidin', but I shan't. Why not? Because my glass + ain't as thick as his. I see through it; I see my girl's temptations, I + see what she is—likes a bit o' life, likes a flower, an' a dance. + She's a natural morganatic. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. A what? + </p> + <p> + BLY. Nothin'll ever make her regular. Mr March'll understand how I feel. + Poor girl! In the mud again. Well, we must keep smilin'. [His face is as + long as his arm] The poor 'ave their troubles, there's no doubt. [He turns + to go] There's nothin' can save her but money, so as she can do as she + likes. Then she wouldn't want to do it. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I'm very sorry, but there it is. + </p> + <p> + BLY. And I thought she was goin' to be a success here. Fact is, you can't + see anything till it 'appens. There's winders all round, but you can't + see. Follow your instincts—it's the only way. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It hasn't helped your daughter. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I was speakin' philosophic! Well, I'll go 'ome now, and prepare + meself for the worst. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Has Cook given you your money? + </p> + <p> + BLY. She 'as. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He goes out gloomily and is nearly overthrown in the doorway by the + violent entry of JOHNNY. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. What's this, Mother? I won't have it—it's pre-war. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Indicating MR BLY] Johnny! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY waves BLY out of the room and doses the door. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. I won't have her go. She's a pathetic little creature. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Unruffled] She's a minx. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mother! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Now, Johnny, be sensible. She's a very pretty girl, and this is + my house. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Of course you think the worst. Trust anyone who wasn't in the war + for that! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I don't think either the better or the worse. Kisses are + kisses! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mother, you're like the papers—you put in all the vice and + leave out all the virtue, and call that human nature. The kiss was an + accident that I bitterly regret. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Johnny, how can you? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Dash it! You know what I mean. I regret it with my—my + conscience. It shan't occur again. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Till next time. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mother, you make me despair. You're so matter-of-fact, you never + give one credit for a pure ideal. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I know where ideals lead. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Where? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Into the soup. And the purer they are, the hotter the soup. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. And you married father! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I did. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well, that girl is not to be chucked out; won't have her on my + chest. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That's why she's going, Johnny. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. She is not. Look at me! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH looks at him from across the dining-table, for he has marched + up to it, till they are staring at each other across the now cleared + rosewood. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. How are you going to stop her? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Oh, I'll stop her right enough. If I stuck it out in Hell, I can + stick it out in Highgate. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Johnny, listen. I've watched this girl; and I don't watch what + I want to see—like your father—I watch what is. She's not a + hard case—yet; but she will be. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. And why? Because all you matter-of-fact people make up your minds + to it. What earthly chance has she had? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. She's a baggage. There are such things, you know, Johnny. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. She's a little creature who went down in the scrum and has been + kicked about ever since. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I'll give her money, if you'll keep her at arm's length. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I call that revolting. What she wants is the human touch. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I've not a doubt of it. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY rises in disgust. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + Johnny, what is the use of wrapping the thing up in catchwords? Human + touch! A young man like you never saved a girl like her. It's as fantastic + as—as Tolstoi's "Resurrection." + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Tolstoi was the most truthful writer that ever lived. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Tolstoi was a Russian—always proving that what isn't, is. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Russians are charitable, anyway, and see into other people's + souls. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That's why they're hopeless. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well—for cynicism— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It's at least as important, Johnny, to see into ourselves as + into other people. I've been trying to make your father understand that + ever since we married. He'd be such a good writer if he did—he + wouldn't write at all. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Father has imagination. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. And no business to meddle with practical affairs. You and he + always ride in front of the hounds. Do you remember when the war broke + out, how angry you were with me because I said we were fighting from a + sense of self-preservation? Well, weren't we? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. That's what I'm doing now, anyway. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Saving this girl, to save yourself? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I must have something decent to do sometimes. There isn't an ideal + left. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. If you knew how tired I am of the word, Johnny! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. There are thousands who feel like me—that the bottom's out + of everything. It sickens me that anything in the least generous should + get sat on by all you people who haven't risked your lives. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [With a smile] I risked mine when you were born, Johnny. You + were always very difficult. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. That girl's been telling me—I can see the whole thing. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. The fact that she suffered doesn't alter her nature; or the + danger to you and us. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. There is no danger—I told her I didn't mean it. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. And she smiled? Didn't she? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I—I don't know. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. If you were ordinary, Johnny, it would be the girl's look-out. + But you're not, and I'm not going to have you in the trap she'll set for + you. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You think she's a designing minx. I tell you she's got no more + design in her than a rabbit. She's just at the mercy of anything. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. That's the trap. She'll play on your feelings, and you'll be + caught. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I'm not a baby. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. You are—and she'll smother you. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. How beastly women are to each other! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. We know ourselves, you see. The girl's father realises + perfectly what she is. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mr Bly is a dodderer. And she's got no mother. I'll bet you've + never realised the life girls who get outed lead. I've seen them—I + saw them in France. It gives one the horrors. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I can imagine it. But no girl gets "outed," as you call it, + unless she's predisposed that way. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. That's all you know of the pressure of life. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Excuse me, Johnny. I worked three years among factory girls, + and I know how they manage to resist things when they've got stuff in + them. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Yes, I know what you mean by stuff—good hard + self-preservative instinct. Why should the wretched girl who hasn't got + that be turned down? She wants protection all the more. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I've offered to help with money till she gets a place. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. And you know she won't take it. She's got that much stuff in her. + This place is her only chance. I appeal to you, Mother—please tell + her not to go. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I shall not, Johnny. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Turning abruptly] Then we know where we are. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I know where you'll be before a week's over. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Where? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. In her arms. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [From the door, grimly] If I am, I'll have the right to be! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Johnny! [But he is gone.] + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH follows to call him back, but is met by MARY. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. So you've tumbled, Mother? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I should think I have! Johnny is making an idiot of himself + about that girl. + </p> + <p> + MARY. He's got the best intentions. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It's all your father. What can one expect when your father + carries on like a lunatic over his paper every morning? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Father must have opinions of his own. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. He has only one: Whatever is, is wrong. + </p> + <p> + MARY. He can't help being intellectual, Mother. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. If he would only learn that the value of a sentiment is the + amount of sacrifice you are prepared to make for it! + </p> + <p> + MARY. Yes: I read that in "The Times" yesterday. Father's much safer than + Johnny. Johnny isn't safe at all; he might make a sacrifice any day. What + were they doing? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Cook caught them kissing. + </p> + <p> + MARY. How truly horrible! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + As she speaks MR MARCH comes in. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. I met Johnny using the most poetic language. What's happened? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. He and that girl. Johnny's talking nonsense about wanting to + save her. I've told her to pack up. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Isn't that rather coercive, Joan? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Do you approve of Johnny getting entangled with this girl? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. No. I was only saying to Mary— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Oh! You were! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. But I can quite see why Johnny— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. The Government, I suppose! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Certainly. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Well, perhaps you'll get us out of the mess you've got us into. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Where's the girl? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. In her room-packing. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We must devise means— + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH smiles. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + The first thing is to see into them—and find out exactly— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Heavens! Are you going to have them X-rayed? They haven't got + chest trouble, Geof. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. They may have heart trouble. It's no good being hasty, Joan. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Oh! For a man that can't see an inch into human nature, give me + a—psychological novelist! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [With dignity] Mary, go and see where Johnny is. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Do you want him here? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Dubiously] Well—if I can. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes out. A silence, during which the MARCHES look at each other by + those turns which characterise exasperated domesticity. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. If she doesn't go, Johnny must. Are you going to turn him out? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Of course not. We must reason with him. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Reason with young people whose lips were glued together half an + hour ago! Why ever did you force me to take this girl? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Ruefully] One can't always resist a kindly impulse, Joan. What + does Mr Bly say to it? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Mr Bly? "Follow your instincts" and then complains of his + daughter for following them. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. The man's a philosopher. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Before we know where we are, we shall be having Johnny married + to that girl. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Nonsense! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Oh, Geof! Whenever you're faced with reality, you say + "Nonsense!" You know Johnny's got chivalry on the brain. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY comes in. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. He's at the top of the servants' staircase; outside her room. He's + sitting in an armchair, with its back to her door. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Good Lord! Direct action! + </p> + <p> + MARY. He's got his pipe, a pound of chocolate, three volumes of "Monte + Cristo," and his old concertina. He says it's better than the trenches. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. My hat! Johnny's made a joke. This is serious. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Nobody can get up, and she can't get down. He says he'll stay there + till all's blue, and it's no use either of you coming unless mother caves + in. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I wonder if Cook could do anything with him? + </p> + <p> + MARY. She's tried. He told her to go to hell. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I Say! And what did Cook—? + </p> + <p> + MARY. She's gone. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Tt! tt! This is very awkward. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK enters through the door which MARY has left open. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Ah, Cook! You're back, then? What's to be done? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [With a laugh] We must devise means! + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh, ma'am, it does remind me so of the tantrums he used to get into, + dear little feller! Smiles with recollection. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Sharply] You're not to take him up anything to eat, Cook! + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! But Master Johnny does get so hungry. It'll drive him wild, + ma'am. Just a Snack now and then! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. No, Cook. Mind—that's flat! + </p> + <p> + COOK. Aren't I to feed Faith, ma'am? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Gad! It wants it! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Johnny must come down to earth. + </p> + <p> + COOK. Ah! I remember how he used to fall down when he was little—he + would go about with his head in the air. But he always picked himself up + like a little man. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Listen! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + They all listen. The distant sounds of a concertina being played with + fury drift in through the open door. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. Don't it sound 'eavenly! + </p> + <p> + The concertina utters a long wail. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + CURTAIN. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> + <p> + The MARCH'S dining-room on the same evening at the end of a perfunctory + dinner. MRS MARCH sits at the dining-table with her back to the windows, + MARY opposite the hearth, and MR MARCH with his back to it. JOHNNY is not + present. Silence and gloom. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We always seem to be eating. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. You've eaten nothing. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Pouring himself out a liqueur glass of brandy but not drinking + it] It's humiliating to think we can't exist without. [Relapses into + gloom.] + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Mary, pass him the walnuts. + </p> + <p> + MARY. I was thinking of taking them up to Johnny. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Looking at his watch] He's been there six hours; even he can't + live on faith. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. If Johnny wants to make a martyr of himself, I can't help it. + </p> + <p> + MARY. How many days are you going to let him sit up there, Mother? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Glancing at MRS MARCH] I never in my life knew anything so + ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Give me a little glass of brandy, Geof. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Good! That's the first step towards seeing reason. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He pours brandy into a liqueur glass from the decanter which stands + between them. MRS MARCH puts the brandy to her lips and makes a little + face, then swallows it down manfully. MARY gets up with the walnuts and + goes. Silence. Gloom. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Horrid stuff! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Haven't you begun to see that your policy's hopeless, Joan? + Come! Tell the girl she can stay. If we make Johnny feel victorious—we + can deal with him. It's just personal pride—the curse of this world. + Both you and Johnny are as stubborn as mules. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Human nature is stubborn, Geof. That's what you easy—going + people never see. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH gets up, vexed, and goes to the fireplace. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Turning] Well! This goes further than you think. It involves + Johnny's affection and respect for you. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH nervously refills the little brandy glass, and again empties + it, with a grimacing shudder. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Noticing] That's better! You'll begin to see things presently. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY re-enters. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. He's been digging himself in. He's put a screen across the head of + the stairs, and got Cook's blankets. He's going to sleep there. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Did he take the walnuts? + </p> + <p> + MARY. No; he passed them in to her. He says he's on hunger strike. But + he's eaten all the chocolate and smoked himself sick. He's having the time + of his life, mother. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. There you are! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Wait till this time to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Cook's been up again. He wouldn't let her pass. She'll have to sleep + in the spare room. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I say! + </p> + <p> + MARY. And he's got the books out of her room. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. D'you know what they are? "The Scarlet Pimpernel," "The Wide + Wide World," and the Bible. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Johnny likes romance. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She crosses to the fire. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [In a low voice] Are you going to leave him up there with the + girl and that inflammatory literature, all night? Where's your common + sense, Joan? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH starts up, presses her hand over her brow, and sits down + again. She is stumped. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + [With consideration for her defeat] Have another tot! [He pours it out] + Let Mary go up with a flag of truce, and ask them both to come down for a + thorough discussion of the whole thing, on condition that they can go up + again if we don't come to terms. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Very well! I'm quite willing to meet him. I hate quarrelling + with Johnny. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Good! I'll go myself. [He goes out.] + </p> + <p> + MARY. Mother, this isn't a coal strike; don't discuss it for three hours + and then at the end ask Johnny and the girl to do precisely what you're + asking them to do now. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Why should I? + </p> + <p> + MARY. Because it's so usual. Do fix on half-way at once. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. There is no half-way. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Well, for goodness sake think of a plan which will make you both + look victorious. That's always done in the end. Why not let her stay, and + make Johnny promise only to see her in the presence of a third party? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Because she'd see him every day while he was looking for the + third party. She'd help him look for it. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [With a gurgle] Mother, I'd no idea you were so—French. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. It seems to me you none of you have any idea what I am. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Well, do remember that there'll be no publicity to make either of + you look small. You can have Peace with Honour, whatever you decide. + [Listening] There they are! Now, Mother, don't be logical! It's so + feminine. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + As the door opens, MRS MARCH nervously fortifies herself with the third + little glass of brandy. She remains seated. MARY is on her right. MR + MARCH leads into the room and stands next his daughter, then FAITH in + hat and coat to the left of the table, and JOHNNY, pale but determined, + last. Assembled thus, in a half fan, of which MRS MARCH is the apex, so + to speak, they are all extremely embarrassed, and no wonder. Suddenly + MARY gives a little gurgle. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. You'd think it funnier if you'd just come out of prison and were + going to be chucked out of your job, on to the world again. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I didn't want to come down here. If I'm to go I want to go at once. + And if I'm not, it's my evening out, please. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She moves towards the door. JOHNNY takes her by the shoulders. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Stand still, and leave it to me. [FAITH looks up at him, + hypnotized by his determination] Now, mother, I've come down at your + request to discuss this; are you ready to keep her? Otherwise up we go + again. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. That's not the way to go to work, Johnny. You mustn't ask people + to eat their words raw—like that. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well, I've had no dinner, but I'm not going to eat my words, I + tell you plainly. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. Very well then; go up again. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Muttering] Mother—logic. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Great Scott! You two haven't the faintest idea of how to conduct + a parley. We have—to—er—explore every path to—find + a way to peace. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [To FAITH] Have you thought of anything to do, if you leave + here? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. What? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I shan't say. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Of course, she'll just chuck herself away. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No, I won't. I'll go to a place I know of, where they don't want + references. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Exactly! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [To FAITH] I want to ask you a question. Since you came out, is + this the first young man who's kissed you? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH has hardly had time to start and manifest what may or may not be + indignation when MR MARCH dashes his hands through his hair. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Joan, really! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Grimly] Don't condescend to answer! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. I thought we'd met to get at the truth. + </p> + <p> + MARY. But do they ever? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I will go out! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. No! [And, as his back is against the door, she can't] I'll see + that you're not insulted any more. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Johnny, I know you have the best intentions, but really the + proper people to help the young are the old—like— + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH suddenly turns her eyes on him, and he goes on rather hurriedly + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + —your mother. I'm sure that she and I will be ready to stand by + Faith. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't want charity. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. No, no! But I hope— + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. To devise means. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Roused] Of course, if nobody will modify their attitude —Johnny, + you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and [To MRS MARCH] so ought you, + Joan. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Suddenly] I'll modify mine. [To FAITH] Come here—close! [In + a low voice to FAITH] Will you give me your word to stay here, if I make + them keep you? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Why? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. To stay here quietly for the next two years? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't know. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I can make them, if you'll promise. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. You're just in a temper. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Promise! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + During this colloquy the MARCHES have been so profoundly uneasy that MRS + MARCH has poured out another glass of brandy. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Johnny, the terms of the Armistice didn't include this sort of + thing. It was to be all open and above-board. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well, if you don't keep her, I shall clear out. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + At this bombshell MRS MARCH rises. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. Don't joke, Johnny! You'll do yourself an injury. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. And if I go, I go for good. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Nonsense, Johnny! Don't carry a good thing too far! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I mean it. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. What will you live on? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Not poetry. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. What, then? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Emigrate or go into the Police. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Good Lord! [Going up to his wife—in a low voice] Let her + stay till Johnny's in his right mind. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I don't want to stay. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You shall! + </p> + <p> + MARY. Johnny, don't be a lunatic! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK enters, flustered. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. Mr Bly, ma'am, come after his daughter. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. He can have her—he can have her! + </p> + <p> + COOK. Yes, sir. But, you see, he's—Well, there! He's cheerful. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Let him come and take his daughter away. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + But MR BLY has entered behind him. He has a fixed expression, and speaks + with a too perfect accuracy. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + BLY. Did your two Cooks tell you I'm here? + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. If you want your daughter, you can take her. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Mr Bly, get out! + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Ignoring him] I don't want any fuss with your two cooks. [Catching + sight of MRS MARCH] I've prepared myself for this. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. So we see. + </p> + <p> + BLY. I 'ad a bit o' trouble, but I kep' on till I see 'Aigel walkin' at me + in the loo-lookin' glass. Then I knew I'd got me balance. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + They all regard MR BLY in a fascinated manner. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. Father! You've been drinking. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Smiling] What do you think. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. We have a certain sympathy with you, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Gazing at his daughter] I don't want that one. I'll take the other. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Don't repeat yourself, Mr Bly. + </p> + <p> + BLY. [With a flash of muddled insight] Well! There's two of everybody; two + of my daughter; an' two of the 'Ome Secretary; and two-two of Cook —an' + I don't want either. [He waves COOK aside, and grasps at a void alongside + FAITH] Come along! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Going up to him] Very well, Mr Bly! See her home, carefully. + Good-night! + </p> + <p> + BLY. Shake hands! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He extends his other hand; MR MARCH grasps it and turns him round + towards the door. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Now, take her away! Cook, go and open the front door for Mr Bly + and his daughter. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Too many Cooks! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Now then, Mr Bly, take her along! + </p> + <p> + BLY. [Making no attempt to acquire the real FAITH—to an apparition + which he leads with his right hand] You're the one that died when my girl + was 'ung. Will you go—first or shall—I? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + The apparition does not answer. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. Don't! It's horrible! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I did die. + </p> + <p> + BLY. Prepare yourself. Then you'll see what you never saw before. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He goes out with his apparition, shepherded by MR MARCH. MRS MARCH + drinks off her fourth glass of brandy. A peculiar whistle is heard + through the open door, and FAITH starts forward. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Stand still! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I—I must go. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Johnny—let her! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. There's a friend waiting for me. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Let her wait! You're not fit to go out to-night. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Johnny! Really! You're not the girl's Friendly Society! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You none of you care a pin's head what becomes of her. Can't you + see she's on the edge? The whistle is heard again, but fainter. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I'm not in prison now. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Taking her by the arm] All right! I'll come with you. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Recoiling] No. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + Voices are heard in the hall. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. Who's that with father? Johnny, for goodness' sake don't make us all + ridiculous. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH'S voice is heard saying: "Your friend in here." He enters, + followed by a reluctant young man in a dark suit, with dark hair and a + pale square face, enlivened by strange, very living, dark, bull's eyes. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [To FAITH, who stands shrinking a little] I came on this—er + —friend of yours outside; he's been waiting for you some time, he + says. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [To FAITH] You can go now. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Suddenly, to the YOUNG MAN] Who are you? + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Ask another! [To FAITH] Are you ready? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Seeing red] No, she's not; and you'll just clear out. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Johnny! + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. What have you got to do with her? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Quit. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. I'll quit with her, and not before. She's my girl. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Are you his girl? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Yes. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH sits down again, and reaching out her left hand, mechanically + draws to her the glass of brandy which her husband had poured out for + himself and left undrunk. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Then why did you—[He is going to say: "Kiss me," but checks + himself]—let me think you hadn't any friends? Who is this fellow? + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. A little more civility, please. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You look a blackguard, and I believe you are. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [With perfunctory authority] I really can't have this sort of + thing in my house. Johnny, go upstairs; and you two, please go away. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. [To JOHNNY] We know the sort of chap you are—takin' + advantage of workin' girls. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. That's a foul lie. Come into the garden and I'll prove it on your + carcase. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. All right! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No; he'll hurt you. He's been in the war. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [To the YOUNG MAN] You haven't, I'll bet. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. I didn't come here to be slanged. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. This poor girl is going to have a fair deal, and you're not going + to give it her. I can see that with half an eye. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. You'll see it with no eyes when I've done with you. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Come on, then. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He goes up to the windows. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. For God's sake, Johnny, stop this vulgar brawl! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Suddenly] I'm not a "poor girl" and I won't be called one. I don't + want any soft words. Why can't you let me be? [Pointing to JOHNNY] He + talks wild. [JOHNNY clutches the edge of the writing-table] Thinks he can + "rescue" me. I don't want to be rescued. I—[All the feeling of years + rises to the surface now that the barrier has broken] —I want to be + let alone. I've paid for everything I've done—a pound for every + shilling's worth. + </p> + <p> + And all because of one minute when I was half crazy. [Flashing round at + MARY] Wait till you've had a baby you oughtn't to have had, and not a + penny in your pocket! It's money—money—all money! + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Sst! That'll do! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I'll have what I like now, not what you think's good for me. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. God knows we don't want to— + </p> + <p> + FAITH. You mean very well, Mr March, but you're no good. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. I knew it. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. You were very kind to me. But you don't see; nobody sees. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. There! That's enough! You're gettin' excited. You come away with + me. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH's look at him is like the look of a dog at her master. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. [From the background] I know you're a blackguard—I've seen + your sort. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Firing up] Don't call him names! I won't have it. I'll go with + whom I choose! [Her eyes suddenly fix themselves on the YOUNG MAN'S face] + And I'm going with him! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + COOK enters. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. What now, Cook? + </p> + <p> + COOK. A Mr Barnabas in the hall, sir. From the police. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + Everybody starts. MRS MARCH drinks off her fifth little glass of brandy, + then sits again. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. From the police? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He goes out, followed by COOK. A moment's suspense. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + YOUNG M. Well, I can't wait any longer. I suppose we can go out the back + way? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He draws FAITH towards the windows. But JOHNNY stands there, barring the + way. JOHNNY. No, you don't. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. [Scared] Oh! Let me go—let him go! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. You may go. [He takes her arm to pull her to the window] He can't. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Freeing herself] No—no! Not if he doesn't. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY has an evident moment of hesitation, and before it is over MR + MARCH comes in again, followed by a man in a neat suit of plain clothes. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. I should like you to say that in front of her. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. Your service, ma'am. Afraid I'm intruding here. Fact is, I've + been waiting for a chance to speak to this young woman quietly. It's + rather public here, sir; but if you wish, of course, I'll mention it. [He + waits for some word from some one; no one speaks, so he goes on almost + apologetically] Well, now, you're in a good place here, and you ought to + keep it. You don't want fresh trouble, I'm sure. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Scared] What do you want with me? + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. I don't want to frighten you; but we've had word passed that + you're associating with the young man there. I observed him to-night + again, waiting outside here and whistling. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. What's the matter with whistling? + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [Eyeing him] I should keep quiet if I was you. As you know, sir + [To MR MARCH] there's a law nowadays against soo-tenors. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Soo—? + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. I knew it. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [Deprecating] I don't want to use any plain English—with + ladies present— + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. I don't know you. What are you after? Do you dare—? + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. We cut the darin', 'tisn't necessary. We know all about you. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. It's a lie! + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. There, miss, don't let your feelings— + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [To the YOUNG MAN] It's a lie, isn't it? + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. A blankety lie. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [To BARNABAs] Have you actual proof? + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Proof? It's his job to get chaps into a mess. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [Sharply] None of your lip, now! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + At the new tone in his voice FAITH turns and visibly quails, like a dog + that has been shown a whip. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. Inexpressibly painful! + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Ah! How would you like to be insulted in front of your girl? If + you're a gentleman you'll tell him to leave the house. If he's got a + warrant, let him produce it; if he hasn't, let him get out. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [To MR MARCH] You'll understand, sir, that my object in + speakin' to you to-night was for the good of the girl. Strictly, I've gone + a bit out of my way. If my job was to get men into trouble, as he says, + I'd only to wait till he's got hold of her. These fellows, you know, are + as cunning as lynxes and as impudent as the devil. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Now, look here, if I get any more of this from you—I—I'll + consult a lawyer. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Fellows like you— + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Johnny! + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. Your son, sir? + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Yes; and wants to be where I am. But my girl knows better; don't + you? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He gives FAITH a look which has a certain magnetism. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + P. C. MAN. If we could have the Court cleared of ladies, sir, we might + speak a little plainer. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Joan! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + But MRS MARCH does not vary her smiling immobility; FAITH draws a little + nearer to the YOUNG MAN. MARY turns to the fire. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [With half a smile] I keep on forgettin' that women are men + nowadays. Well! + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. When you've quite done joking, we'll go for our walk. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [To BARNABAS] I think you'd better tell her anything you know. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [Eyeing FAITH and the YOUNG MAN] I'd rather not be more + precise, sir, at this stage. + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. I should think not! Police spite! [To FAITH] You know what the + Law is, once they get a down on you. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [To MR MARCH] It's our business to keep an eye on all this sort + of thing, sir, with girls who've just come out. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Deeply] You've only to look at his face! + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. My face is as good as yours. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH lifts her eyes to his. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [Taking in that look] Well, there it is! Sorry I wasted my time + and yours, Sir! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Distracted] My goodness! Now, Faith, consider! This is the + turning-point. I've told you we'll stand by you. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Flashing round] Leave me alone! I stick to my friends. Leave me + alone, and leave him alone! What is it to you? + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [With sudden resolution] Now, look here! This man George + Blunter was had up three years ago—for livin' on the earnings of a + woman called Johnson. He was dismissed with a caution. We got him again + last year over a woman called Lee—that time he did— + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. Stop it! That's enough of your lip. I won't put up with this + —not for any woman in the world. Not I! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [With a sway towards him] It's not—! + </p> + <p> + YOUNG M. I'm off! Bong Swore la Companee! He tarns on his heel and walks + out unhindered. + </p> + <p> + P. C. MAN. [Deeply] A bad hat, that; if ever there was one. We'll be + having him again before long. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He looks at FAITH. They all look at FAITH. But her face is so strange, + so tremulous, that they all turn their eyes away. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + FAITH. He—he said—he—! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + On the verge of an emotional outbreak, she saves herself by an effort. A + painful silence. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + P. C. MAN. Well, sir—that's all. Good evening! He turns to the door, + touching his forehead to MR MARCH, and goes. + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + As the door closes, FAITH sinks into a chair, and burying her face in + her hands, sobs silently. MRS MARCH sits motionless with a faint smile. + JOHNNY stands at the window biting his nails. MARY crosses to FAITH. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [Softly] Don't. You weren't really fond of him? + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + FAITH bends her head. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. But how could you? He— + </p> + <p> + FAITH. I—I couldn't see inside him. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Yes; but he looked—couldn't you see he looked—? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Suddenly flinging up her head] If you'd been two years without a + word, you'd believe anyone that said he liked you. + </p> + <p> + MARY. Perhaps I should. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. But I don't want him—he's a liar. I don't like liars. + </p> + <p> + MARY. I'm awfully sorry. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Looking at her] Yes—you keep off feeling—then you'll + be happy! [Rising] Good-bye! + </p> + <p> + MARY. Where are you going? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. To my father. + </p> + <p> + MARY. With him in that state? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. He won't hurt me. + </p> + <p> + MARY. You'd better stay. Mother, she can stay, can't she? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH nods. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. No! + </p> + <p> + MARY. Why not? We're all sorry. Do! You'd better. + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Father'll come over for my things tomorrow. + </p> + <p> + MARY. What are you going to do? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Proudly] I'll get on. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [From the window] Stop! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + All turn and look at him. He comes down. Will you come to me? FAITH + stares at him. MRS MARCH continues to smile faintly. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MARY. [With a horrified gesture] Johnny! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. Will you? I'll play cricket if you do. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Under his breath] Good God! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + He stares in suspense at FAITH, whose face is a curious blend of + fascination and live feeling. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY. Well? + </p> + <p> + FAITH. [Softly] Don't be silly! I've got no call on you. You don't care + for me, and I don't for you. No! You go and put your head in ice. [She + turns to the door] Good-bye, Mr March! I'm sorry I've been so much + trouble. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Not at all, not at all! + </p> + <p> + FAITH. Oh! Yes, I have. There's nothing to be done with a girl like me. + She goes out. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Taking up the decanter to pour himself out a glass of brandy] + Empty! + </p> + <p> + COOK. [Who has entered with a tray] Yes, my dearie, I'm sure you are. + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. [Staring at his father] A vision, Dad! Windows of Clubs—men + sitting there; and that girl going by with rouge on her cheeks— + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! Master Johnny! + </p> + <p> + JOHNNY. A blue night—the moon over the Park. And she stops and looks + at it.—What has she wanted—the beautiful—something + better than she's got—something that she'll never get! + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! Master Johnny! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She goes up to JOHNNY and touches his forehead. He comes to himself and + hurries to the door, but suddenly MRS MARCH utters a little feathery + laugh. She stands up, swaying slightly. There is something unusual and + charming in her appearance, as if formality had dropped from her. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [With a sort of delicate slow lack of perfect sobriety] I see—it—all. + You—can't—help—unless—you—love! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + JOHNNY stops and looks round at her. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MR MARCH. [Moving a little towards her] Joan! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. She—wants—to—be—loved. It's the way of + the world. + </p> + <p> + MARY. [Turning] Mother! + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. You thought she wanted—to be saved. Silly! She—just— + wants—to—be—loved. Quite natural! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Joan, what's happened to you? + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Smiling and nodding] See—people—as—they—are! + Then you won't be—disappointed. Don't—have—ideals! Have—vision—just + simple —vision! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Your mother's not well. + </p> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Passing her hand over her forehead] It's hot in here! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Mary! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + MARY throws open the French windows. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + MRS MARCH. [Delightfully] The room's full of GAS. Open the windows! Open! + And let's walk—out—into the air! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + She turns and walks delicately out through the opened windows; JOHNNY + and MARY follow her. The moonlight and the air flood in. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + COOK. [Coming to the table and taking up the empty decanter] My Holy Ma! + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Is this the Millennium, Cook? + </p> + <p> + COOK. Oh! Master Geoffrey—there isn't a millehennium. There's too + much human nature. We must look things in the face. + </p> + <p> + MR MARCH. Ah! Neither up—nor down—but straight in the face! + Quite a thought, Cook! Quite a thought! + </p> + <blockquote> + <p> + CURTAIN. + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + <i>GALSWORTHY'S PLAYS</i> + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC_"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + <i>Links to All Volumes</i> + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> + <tr> + <td> + THE FIRST SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2906/2906-h/2906-h.htm"><b>The + Silver Box</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2907/2907-h/2907-h.htm"><b>Joy</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2908/2908-h/2908-h.htm"><b>Strife</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE SECOND SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2909/2909-h/2909-h.htm"><b>The + Eldest Son</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2910/2910-h/2910-h.htm"><b>Little + Dream</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2911/2911-h/2911-h.htm"><b>Justice</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE THIRD SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2912/2912-h/2912-h.htm"><b>The + Fugitive</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2913/2913-h/2913-h.htm"><b>The + Pigeon</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2914/2914-h/2914-h.htm"><b>The + Mob</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE FOURTH SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2915/2915-h/2915-h.htm"><b>A + Bit O'Love</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2916/2916-h/2916-h.htm"><b>The + Foundations</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2917/2917-h/2917-h.htm"><b>The + Skin Game</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE FIFTH SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4764/4764-h/4764-h.htm"><b>A + Family Man</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4765/4765-h/4765-h.htm"><b>Loyalties</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4766/4766-h/4766-h.htm"><b>Windows</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + THE SIXTH SERIES: + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2918/2918-h/2918-h.htm"><b>The + First and Last</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2919/2919-h/2919-h.htm"><b>The + Little Man</b></a> + </td> + <td> + <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2920/2920-h/2920-h.htm"><b>Four + Short Plays</b></a> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + + End of Project Gutenberg's Windows (Fifth Series Plays), by John Galsworthy + + *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINDOWS (FIFTH SERIES PLAYS) *** + + ***** This file should be named 4766-h.htm or 4766-h.zip ***** + This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/6/4766/ + + 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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