The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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SIR CHARLES. Gone out on purpose? What!

LADY DEDMOND. What was the trouble?

GEORGE. I told her this morning you were coming in to Bridge.
Appears she'd asked that fellow Malise, for music.

LADY DEDMOND. Without letting you know?

GEORGE. I believe she did tell me.

LADY DEDMOND. But surely----

GEORGE. I don't want to discuss it. There's never anything in
particular. We're all anyhow, as you know.

LADY DEDMOND. I see. [She looks shrewdly at her son] My dear,
I should be rather careful about him, I think.

SIR CHARLES. Who's that?

LADY DEDMOND. That Mr. Malise.

SIR CHARLES. Oh! That chap!

GEORGE. Clare isn't that sort.

LADY DEDMOND. I know. But she catches up notions very easily. I
think it's a great pity you ever came across him.

SIR CHARLES. Where did you pick him up?

GEORGE. Italy--this Spring--some place or other where they couldn't
speak English.

SIR CHARLES. Um! That's the worst of travellin'.

LADY DEDMOND. I think you ought to have dropped him. These literary
people---[Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't
very far, George.

SIR CHARLES. We'll make him play Bridge. Do him good, if he's that
sort of fellow.

LADY DEDMOND. Is anyone else coming?

GEORGE. Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons.

LADY DEDMOND. [Softly] You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to
speak to you for a long time. It is such a pity you and Clare--What
is it?

GEORGE. God knows! I try, and I believe she does.

SIR CHARLES. It's distressin'--for us, you know, my dear fellow--
distressin'.

LADY DEDMOND. I know it's been going on for a long time.

GEORGE. Oh! leave it alone, mother.

LADY DEDMOND. But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a
point--put ideas into her head.

GEORGE. You can't dislike him more than I do. But there's nothing
one can object to.

LADY DEDMOND. Could Reggie Huntingdon do anything, now he's home?
Brothers sometimes----

GEORGE. I can't bear my affairs being messed about----

LADY DEDMOND. Well! it would be better for you and Clare to be
supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone. Go
quietly into the dining-room and wait for her.

SIR CHARLES. Good! Leave your mother to make up something. She'll
do it!

LADY DEDMOND. That may be he. Quick!

[A bell sounds.]

GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his
haste. LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!" PAYNTER
enters.

LADY DEDMOND. Don't say anything about your master and mistress
being out. I'll explain.

PAYNTER. The master, my lady?

LADY DEDMOND. Yes, I know. But you needn't say so. Do you
understand?

PAYNTER. [In polite dudgeon] Just so, my lady.

[He goes out.]

SIR CHARLES. By Jove! That fellow smells a rat!

LADY DEDMOND. Be careful, Charles!

SIR CHARLES. I should think so.

LADY DEDMOND. I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're
not to wait Bridge for them.

SIR CHARLES. [Listening] He's having a palaver with that man of
George's.

PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon." SIR
CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief.

LADY DEDMOND. Ah! It's you, Reginald!

HUNTINGDON. [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do? How are
you, sir? What's the matter with their man?

SHE CHARLES. What!

HUNTINGDON. I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar;
and he said: "Not in there, sir. The master's there, but my
instructions are to the effect that he's not."

SHE CHARLES. I knew that fellow----

LADY DEDMOND. The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is
waiting for her. It's so important people shouldn't----

HUNTINGDON. Rather!

They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of
members of their families.

LADY DEDMOND. It's getting serious, Reginald. I don't know what's
to become of them. You don't think the Rector--you don't think your
father would speak to Clare?

HUNTINGDON. Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough. He takes
anything of that sort to heart so--especially Clare.

SIR CHARLES. Can't you put in a word yourself?

HUNTINGDON. Don't know where the mischief lies.

SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very
steady-goin' fellow, old George.

HUNTINGDON. Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.

LADY DEDMOND. They ought to have had children.

HUNTINGDON. Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. I really
don't know what to say, ma'am.

SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often
noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and
rice puddin'.

LADY DEDMOND. [With a clear look] Charles!

SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?

HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of
course, when her monkey was up.

SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't
got, is there?

HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.

SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too
matter of fact for her. H'm?

[A short silence.]

LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget
if you know him.

HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.

LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You--you don't
think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?

HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a
bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare----

LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices.
Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The
door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.

SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say?

HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for
them.

SIR CHARLES. Good!

The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise."
MALISE enters. He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a
strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which
seem to have needles in their pupils. His thick hair is rather
untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.

LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very
sorry. They'll be here directly.

[MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]

SIR CHARLES. [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?

HUNTINGDON. We've met, I think.

He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn
the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. MALISE'S eyes
sparkle.

LADY DEDMOND. Clare will be so grieved. One of those invitations

MALISE. On the spur of the moment.

SIR CHARLES. You play Bridge, sir?

MALISE. Afraid not!

SIR CHARLES. Don't mean that? Then we shall have to wait for 'em.

LADY DEDMOND. I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you?

MALISE. Such is my weakness.

LADY DEDMOND. Delightful profession.

SIR CHARLES. Doesn't tie you! What!

MALISE. Only by the head.

SIR CHARLES. I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.

MALISE. Indeed!

[There is the sound of a door banged.]

SIR CHARLES. [Hastily] You smoke, Mr. MALISE?

MALISE. Too much.

SIR CHARLES. Ah! Must smoke when you think a lot.

MALISE. Or think when you smoke a lot.

SIR CHARLES. [Genially] Don't know that I find that.

LADY DEDMOND. [With her clear look at him] Charles!

The door is opened. CLARE DEDMOND in a cream-coloured evening
frock comes in from the hall, followed by GEORGE. She is rather
pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown
hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of
those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of
voice and manner.

LADY DEDMOND. Well, my dear!

SIR CHARLES. Ah! George. Good dinner?

GEORGE. [Giving his hand to MALISE] How are you? Clare! Mr.
MALISE!

CLARE. [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp]
Yes, we met on the door-mat. [Pause.]

SIR CHARLES. Deuce you did! [An awkward pause.]

LADY DEDMOND. [Acidly] Mr. Malise doesn't play Bridge, it appears.
Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music.

SIR CHARLES. What! Aren't we goin' to get a game? [PAYNTER has
entered with a tray.]

GEORGE. Paynter! Take that table into the dining room.

PAYNTER. [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door] Yes,
sir.

MALISE. Let me give you a hand.

PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE
making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE.

SIR CHARLES. Very fine sunset!

Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh. All look at her first with
surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. GEORGE is
about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off.

HUNTINGDON. Bring the tray along, old man.

GEORGE takes up the tray, stops to look at CLARE, then allows
HUNTINGDON to shepherd him out.

LADY DEDMOND. [Without looking at CLARE] Well, if we're going to
play, Charles? [She jerks his sleeve.]

SIR CHARLES. What? [He marches out.]

LADY DEDMOND. [Meeting MALISE in the doorway] Now you will be able
to have your music.

[She follows the GENERAL out]

[CLARE stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.]

MALISE. Delicious!

CLARE. [In her level, clipped voice] Perfectly beastly of me! I'm
so sorry. I simply can't help running amok to-night.

MALISE. Never apologize for being fey. It's much too rare.

CLARE. On the door-mat! And they'd whitewashed me so beautifully!
Poor dears! I wonder if I ought----[She looks towards the door.]

MALISE. Don't spoil it!

CLARE. I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three
hours. One does get desperate sometimes.

MALISE. Thank God for that!

CLARE. Only makes it worse afterwards. It seems so frightful to
them, too.

MALISE. [Softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the
right words] Blessed be the respectable! May they dream of--me!
And blessed be all men of the world! May they perish of a surfeit
of--good form!

CLARE. I like that. Oh, won't there be a row! [With a faint
movement of her shoulders] And the usual reconciliation.

MALISE. Mrs. Dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours. Why
don't you spread your wings?

CLARE. My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and
I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm
supposed to set a good example. Then, I've no money, and I can't do
anything for a living, except serve in a shop. I shouldn't be free,
either; so what's the good? Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I
wasn't going to be happy. You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or
ill-treated. It's only----

MALISE. Prison. Break out!

CLARE. [Turning to the window] Did you see the sunset? That white
cloud trying to fly up?

[She holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.]

MALISE. [Admiring her] Ah-h-h! [Then, as she drops her arms
suddenly] Play me something.

CLARE. [Going to the piano] I'm awfully grateful to you. You don't
make me feel just an attractive female. I wanted somebody like that.
[Letting her hands rest on the notes] All the same, I'm glad not to
be ugly.

MALISE. Thank God for beauty!

PAYNTER. [Opening the door] Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton.

MALISE. Who are they?

CLARE. [Rising] She's my chief pal. He was in the Navy.

She goes forward. MRS. FULLERTON is a rather tall woman, with
dark hair and a quick eye. He, one of those clean-shaven naval
men of good presence who have retired from the sea, but not from
their susceptibility.

MRS. FULLARTON. [Kissing CLARE, and taking in both MALISE and her
husband's look at CLARE] We've only come for a minute.

CLARE. They're playing Bridge in the dining-room. Mr. Malise
doesn't play. Mr. Malise--Mrs. Fullarton, Mr. Fullarton.

[They greet.]

FULLARTON. Most awfully jolly dress, Mrs. Dedmond.

MRS. FULLARTON. Yes, lovely, Clare. [FULLARTON abases eyes which
mechanically readjust themselves] We can't stay for Bridge, my dear;
I just wanted to see you a minute, that's all. [Seeing HUNTINGDON
coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband] Edward, I want
to speak to Clare. How d'you do, Captain Huntingdon?

MALISE. I'll say good-night.

He shakes hands with CLARE, bows to MRS. FULLARTON, and makes
his way out. HUNTINGDON and FULLERTON foregather in the
doorway.

MRS. FULLARTON. How are things, Clare? [CLARE just moves her
shoulders] Have you done what I suggested? Your room?

CLARE. No.

MRS. FULLARTON. Why not?

CLARE. I don't want to torture him. If I strike--I'll go clean. I
expect I shall strike.

MRS. FULLARTON. My dear! You'll have the whole world against you.

CLARE. Even you won't back me, Dolly?

MRS. FULLARTON. Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I
can't invent things.

CLARE. You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find
my feet?

MRS. FULLARTON, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at
FULLARTON automatically gazing at CLARE while he talks with
HUNTINGDON.

MRS. FULLARTON. Of course--the only thing is that----

CLARE. [With a faint smile] It's all right, Dolly. I'm not coming.

MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! don't do anything desperate, Clare--you are so
desperate sometimes. You ought to make terms--not tracks.

CLARE. Haggle? [She shakes her head] What have I got to make terms
with? What he still wants is just what I hate giving.

MRS. FULLARTON. But, Clare----

CLARE. No, Dolly; even you don't understand. All day and every day
--just as far apart as we can be--and still--Jolly, isn't it? If
you've got a soul at all.

MRS. FULLARTON. It's awful, really.

CLARE. I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on
with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that--comes
to an end. Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.

She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to
bits. It is the only sign of emotion she has given.

MRS. FULLARTON. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won't do. You
must get a rest. Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?

CLARE. [Shaking her head] Reggie lives on his pay.

MRS. FULLARTON. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise,
then?

FULLARTON. [Coming towards them] I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't
sing me that little song you sang the other night, [He hums] "If I
might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"? Remember?

MRS. FULLARTON. "The falling dew," Edward. We simply must go,
Clare. Good-night. [She kisses her.]

FULLARTON. [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE] It suits
you down to the ground-that dress.

CLARE. Good-night.

HUNTINGDON sees them out. Left alone CLARE clenches her hands,
moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.

HUNTINGDON. [Returning] Look here, Clare!

CLARE. Well, Reggie?

HUNTINGDON. This is working up for a mess, old girl. You can't do
this kind of thing with impunity. No man'll put up with it. If
you've got anything against George, better tell me. [CLARE shakes
her head] You ought to know I should stick by you. What is it?
Come?

CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong
person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that
your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know.

HUNTINGDON. My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a
bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.

CLARE. Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.

HUNTINGDON. I mean, you--you chose him yourself. No one forced you
to marry him.

CLARE. It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?

HUNTINGDON. My dear child, do give us a reason.

CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers]
If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah,
Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one
cared where or what it was--beautiful like that! Apply that to every
--every--everything.

HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old
girl, if that's all----

CLARE. It's not all--it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie--it's
not reason, at all; it's--it's like being underground in a damp cell;
it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming--never
anything coming again-never anything.

HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get
into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.

CLARE. When every day and every night!--Oh! I know it's my fault
for having married him, but that doesn't help.

HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent
chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent
on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep
going.

CLARE. I know.

HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would
be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it
awfully.

CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home
long ago.

HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it--but
it simply won't.

CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.

HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?

CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.

HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go
sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on
the lookout.

CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?

HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's
not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New
Woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it.

CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive--don't
wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be
going, Reggie.

[HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]

HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless
you! Good-night.

CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door,
holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of
emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table,
leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite
calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.

CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home,
and the maids can go to bed.

PAYNTER. We are much obliged, ma'am.

CLARE. I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.

PAYNTER. Naturally, ma'am!

CLARE. Good-night.

PAYNTER. I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?

CLARE. No, thank you.

PAYNTER. No, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.

[He withdraws.]

GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that
wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with
yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow
MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!

CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but
I couldn't help it, really!

GEORGE. Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? My God! You were
brought up as well as I was.

CLARE. Alas!

GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one
word for it--Disgusting!

CLARE. I know.

GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in
heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?

CLARE. I'm sorry.

GEORGE. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me!

CLARE. No--Really! Only--I must break out sometimes.

GEORGE. There are things one does not do.

CLARE. I came in because I was sorry.

GEORGE. And at once began to do it again! It seems to me you
delight in rows.

CLARE. You'd miss your--reconciliations.

GEORGE. For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!

CLARE. And truth?

GEORGE. You are my wife, I suppose.

CLARE. And they twain shall be one--spirit.

GEORGE. Don't talk wild nonsense!

[There is silence.]

CLARE. [Softly] I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice!

GEORGE. Pish!

CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've
served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better
together--if I went away?

GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason,
and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some
primitive sense of honour.

CLARE. You mean your name, don't you?

GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your
head?

CLARE. No; my own evil nature.

GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up
people you know nothing of. I distrust him--and his looks--and his
infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not--good
form.

CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!

GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in
him?

CLARE. A mind.

GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind--as you call it--it's not
necessary to talk about Art and Literature.

CLARE. We don't.

GEORGE. Then what do you talk about--your minds? [CLARE looks at
him] Will you answer a straight question? Is he falling in love
with you?

CLARE. You had better ask him.

GEORGE. I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe
in the guide, philosopher and friend business.

CLARE. Thank you.

A silence. CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.

CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman.

GEORGE. Clare!

CLARE. I believe--I'm sure I could earn my living. Quite serious.

GEORGE. Are you mad?

CLARE. It has been done.

GEORGE. It will never be done by you--understand that!

CLARE. It really is time we parted. I'd go clean out of your life.
I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your
money.

GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us
both.

CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're
a spectacle!

GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as
you behave yourself.

CLARE. That is--behave as you think right.

GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling.

CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time.

GEORGE. So am I.

[CLARE turns to the curtained door.]

GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a
brute. I know you're not happy.

CLARE. And you--are you happy?

GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be?

CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.

GEORGE. We can try.

CLARE. I HAVE--haven't you?

GEORGE. We used----

CLARE. I wonder!

GEORGE. You know we did.

CLARE. Too long ago--if ever.

GEORGE [Coming closer] I--still----

CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard
love.

GEORGE. We've got to face the facts.

CLARE. I thought I was.

GEORGE. The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and
certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly
for me, in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can
reasonably want; and I don't--don't wish for any change. If you
could bring anything against me--if I drank, or knocked about town,
or expected too much of you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I
can see.

CLARE. Well, I think we've talked enough.

[She again moves towards the curtained door.]

GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put
up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried?
That's simple purgatory. You ought to know.

CLARE. Yes. I haven't yet, have I?

GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple
who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with
each other and make the best of it.

CLARE. Not by thousands.

GEORGE. Well, why do you imagine they do it?

CLARE. I don't know.

GEORGE. From a common sense of decency.

CLARE. Very!

GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the
world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long
slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you
might try to make some amends, I should think.

CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of
something she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm.

CLARE. No, no--no!

GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up?

CLARE. I don't feel very Christian.

She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her.
GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the
room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it
with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward,
he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its
edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall
and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then
stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh.
Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the
curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is
standing, unhooking a necklet.