The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy


WACE. Really--really, sir----

SHELDER. The time of crusades is past, More.

MORE. Is it?

BANNING. Ah! no, but we don't want to part with you, Mr. More.
It's a bitter thing, this, after three elections. Look at the 'uman
side of it! To speak ill of your country when there's been a
disaster like this terrible business in the Pass. There's your own
wife. I see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon.
Come now--how must she feel?

MORE breaks away to the bay window. The DEPUTATION exchange
glances.

MORE. [Turning] To try to muzzle me like this--is going too far.

BANNING. We just want to put you out of temptation.

MORE. I've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years.
You've all been bricks to me. My heart's in my work, Banning; I'm
not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty.

SHELDER. Just so--we don't want to see you in that quandary.

BANNING. It'd be no friendliness to give you a wrong impression of
the state of feeling. Silence--till the bitterness is overpast;
there's naught else for it, Mr. More, while you feel as you do. That
tongue of yours! Come! You owe us something. You're a big man;
it's the big view you ought to take.

MORE. I am trying to.

HOME. And what precisely is your view--you'll pardon my asking?

MORE. [Turning on him] Mr. Home a great country such as ours--is
trustee for the highest sentiments of mankind. Do these few outrages
justify us in stealing the freedom of this little people?

BANNING. Steal--their freedom! That's rather running before the
hounds.

MORE. Ah, Banning! now we come to it. In your hearts you're none of
you for that--neither by force nor fraud. And yet you all know that
we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all
we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak. The
Prime Minister's words the other night were these: "If we are forced
to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced."
What does that mean but swallowing this country?

SHELDER. Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing.

HOME. We don't want their wretched country--we're forced.

MORE. We are not forced.

SHELDER. My dear More, what is civilization but the logical,
inevitable swallowing up of the lower by the higher types of man?
And what else will it be here?

MORE. We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we might argue it all
day. But the point is, not whether you or I are right--the point is:
What is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do? Please
tell me.

[There is a silence.]

BANNING. [Simply] I was just thinkin' of those poor fellows in the
Pass.

MORE. I can see them, as well as you, Banning. But, imagine! Up in
our own country--the Black Valley--twelve hundred foreign devils dead
and dying--the crows busy over them--in our own country, our own
valley--ours--ours--violated. Would you care about "the poor
fellows" in that Pass?--Invading, stealing dogs! Kill them--kill
them! You would, and I would, too!

The passion of those words touches and grips as no arguments
could; and they are silent.

MORE. Well! What's the difference out there? I'm not so inhuman as
not to want to see this disaster in the Pass wiped out. But once
that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and
they're not few; [Very low] in spite of my own wife's feeling, I
must be free to raise my voice against this war.

BANNING. [Speaking slowly, consulting the others, as it were, with
his eyes] Mr. More, there's no man I respect more than yourself. I
can't tell what they'll say down there when we go back; but I, for
one, don't feel it in me to take a hand in pressing you farther
against your faith.

SHELDER. We don't deny that--that you have a case of sorts.

WACE. No--surely.

SHELDER. A--man should be free, I suppose, to hold his own opinions.

MORE. Thank you, Shelder.

BANNING. Well! well! We must take you as you are; but it's a rare
pity; there'll be a lot of trouble----

His eyes light on Honk who is leaning forward with hand raised
to his ear, listening. Very faint, from far in the distance,
there is heard a skirling sound. All become conscious of it,
all listen.

HOME. [Suddenly] Bagpipes!

The figure of OLIVE flies past the window, out on the terrace.
KATHERINE turns, as if to follow her.

SHELDER. Highlanders!

[He rises. KATHERINE goes quickly out on to the terrace. One
by one they all follow to the window. One by one go out on to
the terrace, till MORE is left alone. He turns to the bay
window. The music is swelling, coming nearer. MORE leaves the
window--his face distorted by the strafe of his emotions. He
paces the room, taking, in some sort, the rhythm of the march.]

[Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the
tramp of a company. MORE stops at the table, covering his eyes
with his hands.]

[The DEPUTATION troop back across the terrace, and come in at the
French windows. Their faces and manners have quite changed.
KATHERINE follows them as far as the window.]

HOME. [In a strange, almost threatening voice] It won't do, Mr.
More. Give us your word, to hold your peace!

SHELDER. Come! More.

WACE. Yes, indeed--indeed!

BANNING. We must have it.

MORE. [Without lifting his head] I--I----

The drum-tap of a regiment marching is heard.

BANNING. Can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been
struck?

Now comes the scale and mutter of a following crowd.

MORE. I give you----

Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "Give
the beggars hell, boys!" "Wipe your feet on their dirty
country!" "Don't leave 'em a gory acre!" And a burst of hoarse
cheering.

MORE. [Flinging up his head] That's reality! By Heaven! No!

KATHERINE. Oh!

SHELDER. In that case, we'll go.

BANNING. You mean it? You lose us, then!

[MORE bows.]

HOME. Good riddance! [Venomously--his eyes darting between MORE and
KATHERINE] Go and stump the country! Find out what they think of
you! You'll pardon me!

One by one, without a word, only BANNING looking back, they pass
out into the hall. MORE sits down at the table before the pile
of newspapers. KATHERINE, in the window, never moves. OLIVE
comes along the terrace to her mother.

OLIVE. They were nice ones! Such a lot of dirty people following,
and some quite clean, Mummy. [Conscious from her mother's face that
something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up
to his side] Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's crying.
And--look at Mummy!

[MORE raises his head and looks.]

OLIVE. Do be on our side! Do!

She rubs her cheek against his. Feeling that he does not rub
his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to
her mother in wonder.


THE CURTAIN FALLS





ACT III

SCENE I

A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban
theatre. The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building
is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment
bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one
still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the-
War Meeting, October 1st. Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and
others." The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps
of paper. Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. It
is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all
the light there is. A faint, confused murmur, as of distant
hooting is heard. Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough
girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is
again deserted. The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking
his head out, looks up and down. He withdraws, but in a second
reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen.

DOORKEEPER. It's all clear. You can get away down here, gentlemen.
Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner.

THE THREE. [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks,
very much! Thanks!

FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Where's More? Isn't he coming?

They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN.

FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER]
Thanks.

They hurry away. The DOORKEEPER retires. Another boy runs
past. Then the door opens again. STEEL and MORE come out.

MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go
back.

STEEL. Come along, sir, come!

MORE. It sticks in my gizzard, Steel.

STEEL. [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down
the steps] You owe it to the theatre people. [MORE still hesitates]
We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More
half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't seen
you for six weeks.

MORE. All right; don't dislocate my arm.

They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes
running down the alley. Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins
round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 'Ere 'e
is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came.

STEEL. Quick, Sir, quick!

MORE. That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador
remarked.

STEEL. [Pulling him back towards the door] Well! come inside again,
anyway!

A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping
quickly from the left. A motley crew, out for excitement;
loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. All in
the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. They gather round
the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity
that follows on a new development of any chase. MORE, on the
bottom step, turns and eyes them.

A GIRL. [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or the young?

[MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.]

TALL YOUTH. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted
traitor!

MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the
chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they
realized that they were spoiling their own sport.

A ROUGH GIRL. Don't frighten the poor feller!

[A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.]

STEEL. [Tugging at MORE's arm] Come along, sir.

MORE. [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd] Well, what do you want?

A VOICE. Speech.

MORE. Indeed! That's new.

ROUGH VOICE. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver.
You can see it in his face.

A BIG NAVY. [In front] Shut it! Give 'im a chanst!

TALL YOUTH. Silence for the blasted traitor?

A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt
silence.

MORE. You shall have it in a nutshell!

A SHOPBOY. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the
shoulder] Here y'are!

MORE. Go home, and think! If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be
fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there?

TALL YOUTH. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they come out in the open?

MORE. They fight the best way they can.

[A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the
outskirt.]

MORE. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. I've never said a
word against our soldiers. It's the Government I condemn for putting
them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all
of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do,
left to yourselves.

The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of
execration.

MORE. I say not one of you would go for a weaker man.

VOICES IN THE CROWD.

ROUGH VOICE. Tork sense!

GIRL'S VOICE. He's gittin' at you!

TALL YOUTH'S VOICE. Shiny skunk!

A NAVVY. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look 'ere, Mister! Don't
you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the
worse for you-you go 'ome!

COCKNEY VOICE. And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.

[A spurt of laughter.]

A FRIENDLY VOICE. [From the outskirts] Shame! there! Bravo, More!
Keep it up!

[A scuffle drowns this cry.]

MORE. [With vehemence] Stop that! Stop that! You---!

TALL YOUTH. Traitor!

AN ARTISAN. Who black-legged?

MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies!

MORE. Those tribesmen are defending their homes.

TWO VOICES. Hear! hear!

[They are hustled into silence.]

TALL YOUTH. Wind-bag!

MORE. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes! Not mobbing
unarmed men!

[STEEL again pulls at his arm.]

ROUGH. Shut it, or we'll do you in!

MORE. [Recovering his coolness] Ah! Do me in by all means! You'd
deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your
time.

STEEL. For God's sake, sir!

MORE. [Shaking off his touch] Well!

There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost
figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. The crowd
recoils.

There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at
them.

COCKNEY VOICE. Don't 'e speak well! What eloquence!

Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE
across the face. He takes no notice.

ROUGH VOICE. That's it! Give 'im some encouragement.

The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous
smile on MORE'S face.

A TALL YOUTH. Traitor!

A VOICE. Don't stand there like a stuck pig.

A ROUGH. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that!

Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE
across the legs with a belt. STEEL starts forward. MORE,
flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil
staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this
silence is fast turning to rage.

THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there--or
we'll make you! Go on!

[MORE remains immovable.]

A YOUTH. [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak! See!

He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand. MORE jerks it
up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever. A
spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the
action. The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES
scornful face.

TALL YOUTH. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you'll get it!

A VOICE. Enough of your ugly mug!

A ROUGH. Give 'im one!

Two flung stones strike MORE. He staggers and nearly falls,
then rights himself.

A GIRL'S VOICE. Shame!

FRIENDLY VOICE. Bravo, More! Stick to it!

A ROUGH. Give 'im another!

A VOICE. No!

A GIRL'S VOICE. Let 'im alone! Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun!

Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy
silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet. Then the BIG
NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge
of the crowd.

THE NAVVY. Let 'im be!

With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd
breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is
nearly empty.

MORE. [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting
his coat] Well, Steel!

And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away.
Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass. One of them
stops and makes a note.


THE CURTAIN FALLS.




SCENE II

The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured
wood. The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is
sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table,
brushing her hair. A door, on the left, stands ajar. An oak chair
against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other
furniture. Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist
is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs
show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. As the curtain rises,
KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening. She begins again
brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a
drawer of her dressing-table, reads. Through the just open door
behind her comes the voice of OLIVE.

OLIVE. Mummy! I'm awake!

But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in
her nightgown.

OLIVE. [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's
fourteen minutes to eleven.

KATHERINE. Olive, Olive!

OLIVE. I just wanted to see the time. I never can go to sleep if I
try--it's quite helpless, you know. Is there a victory yet?
[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh! I prayed extra special for one in
the evening papers. [Straying round her mother] Hasn't Daddy come?

KATHERINE. Not yet.

OLIVE. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face in her mother's
hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's particular to-night.

KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm.

OLIVE. How long has Daddy been away?

KATHERINE. Six weeks.

OLIVE. It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? Has he been
making speeches all the time?

KATHERINE. Yes.

OLIVE. To-night, too?

KATHERINE. Yes.

OLIVE. The night that man was here whose head's too bald for
anything--oh! Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so
termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a
wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they!

KATHERINE. Very.

OLIVE. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know.

KATHERINE. Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive.

OLIVE. Does Daddy often?

KATHERINE. Yes, nowadays.

OLIVE. What does it mean?

KATHERINE. Speaking to people who won't listen.

OLIVE. What do they do, then?

KATHERINE. Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd
comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things,
and hoot.

OLIVE. Poor Daddy! Is it people on our side who throw things?

KATHERINE. Yes, but only rough people.

OLIVE. Why does he go on doing it? I shouldn't.

KATHERINE. He thinks it is his duty.

OLIVE. To your neighbour, or only to God?

KATHERINE. To both.

OLIVE. Oh! Are those his letters?

KATHERINE. Yes.

OLIVE. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." Does he always
call you his dear heart, Mummy? It's rather jolly, isn't it?
"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. For a few
hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are
the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y?

KATHERINE. [Putting away the letters] Come, Olive!

OLIVE. But what are they?

KATHERINE. Daddy means that he's been very unhappy.

OLIVE. Have you, too?

KATHERINE. Yes.

OLIVE. [Cheerfully] So have I. May I open the window?

KATHERINE. No; you'll let the mist in.

OLIVE. Isn't it a funny mist-all flat!

KATHERINE. Now, come along, frog!

OLIVE. [Making time] Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back?

KATHERINE. We don't know, dear.

OLIVE. I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does.

KATHERINE. Yes.

OLIVE. That's something, isn't it?

KATHERINE. [Picking her up] Now then!

OLIVE. [Deliciously limp] Had I better put in the duty to your
neighbour if there isn't a victory soon? [As they pass through the
door] You're tickling under my knee! [Little gurgles of pleasure
follow. Then silence. Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for
Daddy.

KATHERINE comes back. She is about to leave the door a little
open, when she hears a knock on the other door. It is opened a
few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The
NURSE comes in.

KATHERINE. [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her] What is it,
Nurse?

NURSE. [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do
it in the daytime. I'm giving you notice.

KATHERINE. Nurse! You too!

She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay. The NURSE smudges a
slow tear away from her cheek.

NURSE. I want to go right away at once.

KATHERINE. Leave Olive! That is the sins of the fathers with a
vengeance.

NURSE. I've had another letter from my son. No, Miss Katherine,
while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish
creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back.

KATHERINE. But, Nurse----!

NURSE. It's not like them [With an ineffable gesture] downstairs,
because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke
again, or mind what the boys in the street say. I should think not--
no! It's my heart. I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and
him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water
that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day
one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself
perhaps. If anything were to 'appen to him. I'd never forgive
meself--here. Ah! Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad
news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time
the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself.

KATHERINE. But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you?

NURSE. [Smudging at her cheeks] There's that tells me it's
encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming
back to-night. You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says.

KATHERINE. Don't you know what it's costing him?

NURSE. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than
that it'll cost him, to go against the country.

KATHERINE. He's following his conscience.

NURSE. And others must follow theirs, too. No, Miss Katherine, for
you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your
father fair wasting away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been
these three months past. What'll you feel if anything happens to my
three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed
myself, when your precious mother couldn't? What would she have said
--with you in the camp of his enemies?

KATHERINE. Nurse, Nurse!

NURSE. In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and
makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war
lasts, there's our blood on this house.

KATHERINE. [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen.

NURSE. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move him to leave off!
I see your heart, my dear. But if you don't, then go I must!

She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room,
opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the
words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door.

KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and
smooths her lips and eyes. The door from the corridor is
opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit! You're not in bed?"

KATHERINE. No.

HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her
head. Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into
KATHERINE's arms.

KATHERINE. My dear, what is it?

HELEN. I've seen--a vision!

KATHERINE. Hssh! You'll wake Olive!

HELEN. [Staring before her] I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a
plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. And on it
there were--dark things. One grew into a body without a head, and a
gun by its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a
wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford. And then
I saw--Hubert. His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound,
an awful wound here [She touches her breast]. The blood was running
from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! Kit--by kissing it [She
pauses, stifled by emotion]. Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say
vultures didn't touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from
somewhere, calling out: "Oh! God! I'm dying!" And Wreford began to
swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor
fellow be!" But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out:
"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!" And Wreford
dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man
who's going to kill.

KATHERINE. My dear! HOW ghastly!

HELEN. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead
man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along,
so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him,
Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You
brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there,
he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got
black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to
the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it
touched him, and sprang away. And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing
out at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things!

KATHERINE. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes! You must
have been looking at the mist.

HELEN. [Strangely calm] He's dead!

KATHERINE. It was only a dream.

HELEN. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] That's Stephen.
Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help
coming.