ACT I

 

TIME: Four years ago. Afternoon.

 

SCENE: A small drawing-room or ante-room at the Bowdens’ house in Green Street, Park Lane. Well-furnished. Fireplace R., door L. Facing stage drawn curtains suggest a larger room beyond. Sitting over the fire is HENRY LANGTON, thin, delicate, and about forty. Pause. JACK and MILLICENT PERCIVAL come through the curtains. They are young and happy looking.

 

MILLICENT. Why, it’s Mr. Henry Langton.

LANGTON. How do you do, Mrs. Percival?

                                                            [He has a dry cynical voice.

MILLICENT. I was so sorry to hear you had been ill.

JACK. Better, old chap?

LANGTON. Not much [Warms one hand.] I am waiting on the chance of seeing Richard. ...So glad there’s a fire—some people won’t have one if the month happens to be called July.

            MILLICENT. [Sympathetic.] I know—

            LANGTON. I’m always chilly—in England; fires should be compulsory all the year round after five in the afternoon.

            MILLICENT. Are you going in to see Mrs. Bowden?

            LANGTON. No, thank you. She has enough visitors without me. I don’t feel up to her level to-day. She is my relation since she married Richard—so there’s no reason why I should be civil.

            JACK. Afraid of her?

            LANGTON. No—but. ...I can’t talk to clever women—they have so many loose ends about them, you never know which they’ll take up next.

            MILLICENT. I think she’s wonderful.

            LANGTON. I like them commonplace.

            MILLICENT. Oh—but—she isn’t strong-minded or anything of that sort, and she is very sympathetic [To her husband.] I told her to-day that we’d only been married two months. She asked if she might come and see us—I think she knows how happy we are.

            JACK. [To LANGTON.] Do you hear her? I try to treat her well.

            LANGTON. [Cynically.] Ah! Early days—but I dare say you’ll get on better than Richard and his wife.

            MILLICENT. Oh, but they adore each other. I know she adores him, that is...Why should you think they won’t be happy?

            LANGTON. I didn’t say that. But when a man of seven-and-thirty and a woman of eight-and-twenty marry, I expect they’ve managed to rake in a good many opinions of their own beforehand and stick to them—at any price occasionally.

            JACK. He hates the crowd she has gathered round her.

            MILLICENT. She can’t help it, people run after her so.

            LANGTON. [With a shrug.] Every one seems to know her—and they’ve only been married a year. ...Her name is in printed lists, too, pretty often; that sort of thing grows on a woman like a taste for drugs.

                                   

[MRS. VYNOR, young and pretty, enters through the curtains.

 

            MRS. VYNOR. Oh! Mrs. Percival, you are still here! [To LANGTON.] How do you do?

            JACK. [Aside to LANGTON.] It’s Mrs. Vynor.

            MRS. VYNOR. [Hesitating.] I forgot to ask Mrs. Bowden who was likely to be put up for the Royal Academy next week.

            LANGTON. [Drily.] She would know, of course?

            MRS. VYNOR. Oh yes, she knows everything. ...It doesn’t matter. I won’t go back.

            MILLICENT. How is your little girl? I wanted to ask you just now.

            MRS. VYNOR. Better; but she had a temperature this morning. Mrs. Bowden called twice in one day last week to ask after her, and sent such wonderful flowers.

            MILLICENT. I am certain she is a dear.

            MRS. VYNOR. She is—but I must go. I wish I’d asked her about the election—Geoffrey will be vexed at my forgetting. He couldn’t come himself—he was so disappointed.

            MILLICENT. [Turning to her husband.] Did you hear that? Mr. Vynor was disappointed at not coming himself.

            MRS. VYNOR. Of course he was, and [with a sigh] he is dreadfully down on most women. Good-bye. So glad we met to-day.                                                                                                                               [Exit MRS. VYNOR.

            MILLICENT. [To LANGTON.] Don’t you want to see her?

            LANGTON. No.

            JACK. She’s fascinating—even that woman has succumbed.

            LANGTON. [Reluctantly.] I acknowledge it. ...I believe she’s bothering Richard to go into politics.

            MILLICENT. Why shouldn’t he?

            LANGTON. Why should he? He’d hate it. What he likes is to bury himself in the country or some place where he is not likely to meet anyone who has ever seen him before.

            MILLICENT. Do you know his mother? But of course you do. She told me—                          [Stops.

            LANGTON. You needn’t be afraid. ...It was probably something disagreeable?

            MILLICENT. She said that before he was married he often went away for months at a time and gave no one his address.

            LANGTON. [Nods.] It was one of his provoking habits. ...He took himself off for a year just after he had taken his degree—matters weren’t to his liking at home, or something displeased him. His theory is if you don’t like a thing go away from it—if you don’t like a man, cut him.

            JACK. There’s a good deal to be said for it.

            LANGTON. Once he was away for two or three years and not a soul knew whether he was alive or dead, for he never writes a letter—and it doesn’t occur to him to telegraph.

            JACK. It was during one of those absences that he first met his wife.

            LANGTON. [Looking up.] In Vienna. ...But you were with him Percival?

            JACK. Yes. It was through me, in fact, that they did meet. I took him to old Count Zipernowsky’s.

            LANGTON. I know. But I never heard much about it. I was away. Who precisely was Ziper—Ziper—something?

            JACK. Her uncle—he used to make speeches, very fine nonsense they sounded—a splendid old chap with white hair. He lived in a palace that was crumbling to bits. She looked after him and held a court once a week. I expect that’s how she got at all this business. Heaps of men were at her feet, but I was amazed when Richard went down. ...[To his wife.] Look here, we must be off. We ought to have gone half an hour ago. [To LANGTON.] We’re going to a restaurant dinner and the play. She loves a spree.

            LANGTON. I believe people do that sort of thing when they are newly married.

            MILLICENT. [Gaily] It’s all so exciting.

            JACK. You see, she lived in the country till she was married—and picked buttercups and daisies—

            MILLICENT. I didn’t—

            JACK. [Teasing.] Well, played lawn tennis and went to tea at the vicarage.

[The PERCIVALS are about to go when enter RICHARD BOWDEN door L. He is tall and handsome, about thirty-eight, with an obstinate indolent manner; gives an impression of being reserved.

            JACK. Here is Richard.

            RICHARD. Why—are you going, Jack?

            JACK. Must, I’m afraid, awfully sorry. But glad to have caught sight of you for a minute—Come, Mille.

            MILLICENT. How do you do, Mr. Bowden, and good-bye. [Shakes hands.] We are going out on a little spree—we shall be late.

            RICHARD. I hope it will be a good one.                                              

[Exeunt JACK and MILLICENT.

            RICHARD. Are you better?

                        [It is evident that the two men like each other.

            LANGTON. A little—it doesn’t matter. ...I’m going away—directly almost. Think I shall live abroad for the future.

            RICHARD. [Anxiously.] You can manage it?

            LANGTON. I must—this beastly climate does for me. I have been hoping you would come in—waited on the chance. I didn’t venture to intrude there.

                                                [Nods towards other room.

            RICHARD. Are there many fools left?

            LANGTON. I think not. [RICHARD makes a sound of satisfaction.] The cackling has been growing fainter for some time.

            RICHARD. That’s it—cackle—cackle.

            LANGTON. Lord Faringhurst went out as I came in—judging from his mysterious air he had been telling your wife a few Cabinet secrets. Or perhaps she wants him to find you another job. Didn’t he give you that mission to Petersburg?

            RICHARD. Yes.

            LANGTON. You’ve done nothing since—let your talents run to seed.

            RICHARD. For God’s sake let my great talents got to the devil if they like.

            LANGTON. What has become of the political ideas you were hatching two years ago?

            RICHARD. [With a quick smile.] I was pretty eager about them, wasn’t I? [Crosses the room.]...I hate all this nonsense—we have dined out five times this week. One night we went to the Geographical, to-night we go to the Foreign Office. There have been people to luncheon twice—to discuss some philanthropic scheme she has joined. ...One afternoon there was a tom-fool committee here—some precious society for keeping people at home in the evenings—

            LANGTON. I should have thought you would approve of that?

            RICHARD. Not if they make it an excuse to invade my home. ...Besides, I dislike women who mix themselves up with public matters. ...These drawing-room cackles are the thin end of the wedge.

            LANGTON. [Cynically.] They mean to drive it in. But I don’t think Blanche will do it—offensively. [RICHARD gives a snort]...You ought to be proud of her; she’s a fashion. And ambitious, I believe—for you.

            RICHARD. Ambitious people annoy me. They degenerate into pushers if they are women.

            LANGTON. [Quickly.] Blanche will never be a pusher.

            RICHARD. [With a hard note in his voice.] No, I’ll take care she isn’t.

            LANGTON. You ought to have married a pretty little simpleton like Percival’s wife. She would have suited you much better.

            RICHARD. She would have bored me to death—

                                                [A man comes out of the inner room.

            LANGTON. Here’s the great editor.

            RICHARD. [Coldly.] How do you do, Hesketh?

            HESKETH. How do you do and good-bye. I’ve had a delightful talk with your wife; she has been telling me that I must get some fresh blood into the paper; a few young slashers who can write good English, and are ready to solve the Universe whenever you please. She’s quite right. We want waking up.

            RICHARD. What people call waking up is making this country unfit to live in.

            HESKETH. Oh...Well, see you at the F. O. to-night—I don’t know what your wife is saying to Sir Horace Taylor; but he seems mighty pleased. I hear he has been given some Foreign Order, by the way, and has leave to wear it.                                                                                                                                  [Exit HESKETH.

            RICHARD. [To LANGTON.] Should like to see him get an order for Siberia from the Russian Ambassador—who, I suppose, hasn’t power to give it.

            LANGTON. I fear not. ...Didn’t Blanche see a good many people before she was married?

            RICHARD. Too many—the result of living with that old wind-bag, Zipernowsky. I believe she wrote his speeches.

            LANGTON. You ought to be glad she didn’t make them.

 

[SIR HORACE TAYLOR comes through the curtains,

 followed by ALGY CARSTAIRS.

 

            SIR HORACE. Ah, Bowden, how do you do? Mustn’t stop to talk to you. Carstairs and I have both stayed far too long, but your wife is so eloquent—told me all the benefits the Italians gained from the Austrian occupation. Never understood it before.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [Who is affected and intense.] Sir Horace is entirely subjugated by the beautiful lady with the soulful eyes.

            RICHARD. [Coldly.] Indeed—what does soulful mean?

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. The soul is the little seed from heaven that is sown in every human being—and the rest depends on ourselves, whether it expands and grows and soars, or withers and falls lower and lower into the earth; and the eyes are the soul’s indicators, its messengers.

            RICHARD. [Shortly.] Oh.

            SIR HORACE. [Amused.] This man speaks as a poet. You should have heard him in there.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. Mrs. Bowden is so stimulating. She makes one feel as if one had genius, and that its achievements might be delayed but were certain. She is a lamp that shows the way.

            RICHARD. Glad to hear it. A lamp is a most convenient thing to have in the house.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [To SIR HORACE.] He will understand later—even for him she will light the difficult paths. [To RICHARD.] She has given me permission to dedicate my next volume of poems to her—I am gong to the publisher now. 

            RICHARD. Do, I wouldn’t detain you for the world. Good-bye. [To SIR HORACE.] We shall meet to-night, I suppose?

            SIR HORACE. Of course. Come, Carstairs, if I’m to drop you.

            ALGY CARTSTAIRS. I come.

 

                                                [Exeunt SIR HORACE and ALGY CARSTAIRS.

 

            RICHARD. [As he looks after them.] I wish some one would dedicate your funeral sermon to her. ...[To LANGTON.] Are there any more in there?

            LANGTON. I don’t think so—yes, Widhurst.

            RICHARD. He is the gaping idiot who wants to act and can’t—so he talks about some asinine scheme he calls a theatre of intellect—with other people’s money, and himself as manager, of course.

            LANGTON. Here he is!

           

                                                [Enter WIDHURST, young, evidently in a hurry.

 

            WIDHURST. [To RICHARD.] Ah, how do you do? I have been having a most interesting talk with Mrs. Bowden. She has promised me an introduction to Thornwaite—she knows everybody. I told her I should prefer just to walk on—it leaves one time for thought and observation.

            RICHARD. Suit you, no doubt—you had some scheme?

            WIDHURST. I have—a great one. But the moment is not ripe for it; meanwhile I must humour the philistine. Good-bye.

            RICHARD. Good-bye.                                                                                    [Exit WIDHURST.

            LANGTON. What sort of a chap was this Zipernowsky?

            RICHARD. Oh, the usual indefinite fanatic. ...Blanche made half his success and his own picturesque appearance did the rest. Most of the fanatical people are not fit to look at. He was, and [half tenderly] she is. I don’t mean that she’s a fanatic—but she has ideals, and that sort of thing—which is nearly as bad. Women are so restless nowadays. I wish I could get her away. Luckily the season is nearly over.

            LANGTON. The season is an accursed time; when all the idiots ineligible for asylums are let loose in London. Naturally a nice woman, who doesn’t know, takes them seriously. ...This is her first year in England.

            RICHARD. But she knows the world. She’s a woman, not a girl. ...I should like to get away again—alone. It suits me to be alone, always did. Or, I wish I were going with you.

            LANGTON. The manner in which I rough it wouldn’t suit you. I’m a poor man and you are a rich one.

            RICHARD. You needn’t rough it.

            LANGTON. [Drily.] I prefer it. ...The only thing I shall miss is your society. I like it, in spite of your unfortunate temper. I always regretted not going to Innsbruck that time you asked me.

            RICHARD. [Who has not been listening.] Suppose I take you as far as Italy? When do you start?

            LANGTON. Next week. I don’t want you, Richard.                                                                 [Gets up.

            RICHARD. [Chafing.] I was not made for this sort of thing; I feel caged, caught in a net...I wonder why men marry?

            LANGTON. Perhaps she wonders why women marry.

                                                            [Enter BERTRAM from the inner curtains.

            BERTRAM. Ah, Mr. Bowden, I’m just going. One moment! [Goes back.] Mrs. Bowden—

            RICHARD. Who is that idiot?

            LANGTON. He is—[a shrug] I don’t know. Yes, I do. Rather a nice chap, called Bertram—just taken his degree. Well, good-bye. [About to go, turns back.] By the way, who was the comfortable German woman I met here the other day—Countess Augusta; is she a daughter of Count Ziper—?

            RICHARD. No, his daughter-in-law. She has been over here on a visit—going back to Vienna to-morrow. She’s too fat.

            LANGTON. I like them fat. They are comfortable to look at in cold weather. Good-bye.         

[Exit.

            BERTRAM. I am the very last. Good-bye.                                          

[Exit hurriedly.

 

[RICHARD BOWDEN alone, stands by fireplace watching the curtains. They open and BLANCHE is seen facing stage. She is tall, beautiful, somewhat imperious. In moments of excitement she speaks with a slight foreign accent.

 

            BLANCHE. Rich-ard [sounds like a caress], you are there! Why did you not come in? ...You are not cross any more?

            RICHARD. I’m tired of the people who crowd this house for the sake of hearing themselves speak. The whole thing is a nuisance and must come to an end.

            BLANCHE. [A little amused.] Why, you are more cross—even than before? I am so tired of foolish little quarrels.

            RICHARD. You bring them on yourself. My mother told me that she found you, with a crowd round you, discussing matters that were better left alone—or she supposed so, for when she entered the talk suddenly flagged.

            SHE. It did flag, but it was not for that reason. ...What else did she say?

            HE. [Evidently chafed at his mother’s sarcasm.] She asked if you were trying to get me into the Cabinet.

            SHE. And you said—?

            HE. That if ever I did get into it the door would not be opened by a woman.

            SHE. You wouldn’t like that?

            HE. [With a snap.] No, I should not. ...You are never happy unless you imagine you are in the whirl of things and have a crowd of people round you.

            SHE. It is quite true, my Richard. I like to think that I am in the whirl, not sitting still, doing nothing, thinking about nothing, being nothing. ...And I like the people who come here and tell me of all that is going on.

            HE. I do not.

            SHE. But why don’t you, Richard? They are not useless; they belong to the crew of the ship.

            HE. Ship?

            SHE. Isn’t the world a big ship? There are the passengers and the crew who make it go—it is the crew that come here. There are those who do politics, those who fight—the men who make history, or pictures, or music—they all make something that helps the world to go on. You will not live always not making something yourself? [Goes nearer to him.]

            HE. [Coldly.] What I make, as you call it, is my own affair.

            SHE. But you are my affair; I want to gain for you those things for which you yourself will not stretch out a hand. I should like to see you a king! Sometimes I say to myself you shall be one—the real kings of the earth are the uncrowned ones.

            HE. [Determined not to be propitiated.] This is nonsense. ... Next Saturday people shall be told that you are not at home.

            SHE. [Sitting down opposite him.] We will give up the people if you wish, cher ami—is there anything else that vexes you?

            HE. And I will not be annoyed by constantly coming across your name in print.

            SHE. [Teasingly.] But it does look nice, doesn’t it?

            HE. Just now I had a telegram asking me to help with a festival of which you are a patroness—

            SHE. Oh yes—And you answered?

            HE. I answered. No.

            SHE. [With a little laugh.] Oh—oh—but, my darling, that was wicked—very wicked. ...[A long pause.] Rich-ard?

            HE. Yes?

            SHE. [Leaning forward eagerly.] What are we going to do with our lives?

            HE. Do with them?

            SHE. How are we going to pay for them?

            HE. Pay for them?

            SHE. Pay the world that lets us live in it, breathe in it, covers us with its beautiful sky, and gives us strength and health and a thousand things besides—

            HE. Including various ills and worries.

            SHE. They are penalties. We have to pay for all the good things we have, and for the bad ones we do—to pay a great deal for the bad ones, that is certain.

            HE. This is some of Uncle Zipernowsky’s precious teaching—how are we to pay for the good things?

            SHE. We who are rich and strong can pay with the lives we live and the work we do—work that others who have to fight for daily bread cannot afford to do.

            HE. Socialism.

            SHE. [Firmly.] No, Richard, not that. I don’t want to give away our money and goods; but we have time and opportunity; it is as wicked to throw them away as—as to throw away food that would feed hungry people. [He looks at her in wonder.] ...Besides, we cannot live shut up in this little house, seeing no one, doing nothing that is any good.

            HE. We can be quiet—and together. A year after marriage people usually live sensible unruffled lives.

            SHE. It is why they are often so dull. They settle down to the little circle and the family life; they shut all the windows looking outwards and live sensible unruffled lives. ...It is not enough, not enough, dear Richard.

            HE. My mother and sisters had none of the excitements you have gathered round you—and they have been content.

            SHE. [Nods.] And they are very dull. They have only little trivial matters to think about. They stay in a still house and have nothing to do, and they do not understand the people who want to live, who must live as long as they stay in the world. ...We must go on—and on—if we want to keep hold of life.

            HE. Where did you get all these notions? You hadn’t them when we first met.

            SHE. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes, always. My uncle was getting old; he used to say I must carry on his work. But—you came and made me love you. [Goes up to him.] It was like the tide of the sea, and swept me into your arms. I am glad. ...But if you had not come, some day I should have done things—I, your Blanche, would have done them.

            HE. My dear, I can’t bear ambitious women. [Puts his arms round her and she nestles joyfully, but anxiously, in them.] There, [tenderly] isn’t she happiest when her man’s arms are round her?

            SHE. [Nods.] Oh, I love being here...and I am not ambitious for myself any more—it is for you—for you [with a long sigh]...I could not bear to think that I had married a man who did nothing!

            HE. [Brushing back her hair.] Is it nothing to love you?

            SHE. [Simply and appealing.] It is my life. But you do not love me dreadfully—dreadfully much?

            HE. I love you as much as most men love their wives—perhaps more.

            SHE [Drearily.] Perhaps more. ...

            HE [Kissing her forehead and then letting her go.] Give up all these silly notions; we will live quietly in the country—

            SHE. No, no [shakes her head]; it is not as if you had land to cultivate—or duties there. [Sits.] We will go by and by, when we are old. Or if God sends us children, or if you have work to do, that is better done apart. But now you must not deprive your country of that which has been born with you, for its use.

            HE [Standing by her.] You talk such nonsense [half impatiently, half tenderly]. You mean to say that we have no right to be happy and enjoy life together on the money that I have inherited?

            SHE. But anyone can inherit. It is not merit at all. And we can’t go on like this...you would grow stupid, dearest—yes, you would. ...[Touches his hand.] And women must have children to mother or work to do, or their lives are useless. Oh, Richard, won’t you see it? If you went into Parliament, for instance? You have a clear head, you are clever, you have time to give to public affairs—it is the best men who should direct them. Yes, darling, it is—[caressing his hands as he stands by her], and I will make all the little conditions of your life so easy that you will do your best, your very best work.

            HE. [Evidently thinking and not listening.] We will go abroad for a bit, then we shall get away from—all this nonsense.

            SHE. [Rather catching at the prospect.] Yes, let us go abroad. But not for too long—for pleasure that does not come after work or difficulty is soon wearisome.

            HE. Work—work again! What next?

            SHE. What next? Why this! [with a queer little smile] Some day I think people will be taken up for idleness.

            HE. [Trying to hide the fact that he is growing angry.] I hate the everlasting movement of the time, and the restless platform women—

            SHE [Quickly.] I am not one of those—I do not want to be—though I want to be allowed intelligent interests, in my home. That is what women have been struggling for in this country—to be allowed intelligent interests, and occupations, without jeers and patronage, and because this has not been recognised, they have gone to extremes.

                                                [He moves impatiently.

            SHE. You don’t understand. Women are different now from when our mothers were young. They know more, they have thought more, learnt more—and they want to have their part—but not the bigger part; and it is only the people who are old-fashioned, or narrow, who are afraid of giving women a little share of life. ...They cannot bear the useless life any longer, unless they are stupid. If I helped you—

            HE. You want me to worry myself with the wear and tear of public life against my own inclinations?

            HE. Justify our existence! What rubbish! Understand once for all—I will not have my house made intolerable, nor my life laid out for me.

            SHE. I do not want to lay it out; but you are growing angry—

            HE. Yes, I am growing angry; it is for me to choose the life I lead, not you. Women have become a public nuisance with their demands and intellect and energy. [A pause. In a hard voice.] We married because we thought we should be happy together—if we find we were mistaken we will try being happier apart.

            SHE. [Dismayed.] You would do that!

            HE. Most certainly. If you cannot leave me alone to live as I choose, and unless you make this house the sort of place in which I care to stay, I shall leave it. I hate quarrels, and when people annoy me I usually go away from them.

            SHE. [Shivers.] I cannot bear that you should speak to me in that tone. ...You expect me to live here, depending on your humours and content with so little—you give me no companionship—we seldom discuss anything apart from our common interests in the house—or the people we have met a foolish parties. I want more—you do not give me enough.

            HE. Home is a woman’s place, and the life of a normal woman—the one she is best fitted for—should satisfy her.

            SHE. Not now—she has gone on—though I do not know what you mean by normal woman—I think it is a stupid one.

            HE. [Taking no notice of the interruption.] You can play about—I believe that is the term nowadays—in the house, and amuse yourself in a manner that has contented many charming women. I don’t care for society, but I will take you to parties or theatres occasionally, if you desire it. You can become intimate with various people, and I will not interfere—if I approve of them. But I will not have this nonsense going on—this struggle for a public or intellectual life—women are not meant for it, nor fit for it. I’m quite aware that a few exceptional women have had salons and so on, but in my opinion they were not desirable women. You can subscribe to charitable or social functions occasionally if you wish; but I will not have your name flaunted in lists of committees for tom-fool objects, nor of people interested in modern movements—of which I do not usually approve—and you are not to give it to anyone—anywhere—without my permission. Do you hear?

            SHE. [Staring at him.] Yes, I hear. You want me to live the sort of life that has been sufficient for your mother and sisters. 

            HE. [Firmly.] Yes.

            SHE. And you do not mean to give me more companionship than you have given me since—since six months after we married.

            HE. No. My method has been to live much to myself, and I intend to go on with it. ...And I will not let you make this house intolerable with a crowd of people I do not want. It was perfectly ridiculous to-day. Henry and I were in this room—it felt like a waiting-room you and your set gabbled in there, and imagined you were helping the world to go on—

            SHE. But you go out. You go to your club—you are away often for hours and hours. Why should you object if I find other companionships and interests, or if I gather people here—people that I like?

            HE. I dislike hearing them, seeing them, knowing they are about the place. Besides, why should you want to drag me in among them?

            SHE. [Her face lighting up.] Because they might suggest things to your thoughts, you would hear what the world wants—

[Enter SERVANT with a letter, which he gives to BLANCHE. SERVANT. His lordship will send for an answer in half an hour.                            

[Exit SERVANT.

            SHE. [Pleased and excited as she reads the letter.] It is from Lord Faringhurst; he talked of you this afternoon. He said it was wicked you should not be in harness, for you were so clever. Yes, he did, Rich-ard. Listen—“Will you and your husband lunch with me at the Garrick on Thursday? You know that ladies are invited then?”—Oh, but I should like that, wouldn’t you?

            HE. [Disdainful.] Faringhurst is a bore. I suppose he thinks you would like to look at the actors who belong to the Garrick.

            SHE. I should. [Reads.] “Then we can discuss the matter at which I hinted to-day. Curiously enough I have just heard that there is likely to be a bye-election in my part of the world. Perhaps—[hesitates] if we could—include him to stand—”

            HE. Then you have already been laying out my life for me?

            SHE. [Astonished.] Why, no, Richard—he likes you so much, and think how splendid it would be if you had not even to wait for a General Election.

            HE. I’m not likely to be concerned in a General or any other election, so there is no necessity for our lunching at the Garrick.

            SHE. Oh, but—

            HE. You can write him a note at once—

            SHE. But I should like it so much—I mean to lunch.

            HE. I should not. Stay, I will write myself.

            [Goes to table at side and writes a note while she looks  at him dismayed. He folds it up,   then unfolds it and reads]: “Dear Faringhurst,—It is very good of you and my wife to interest yourselves in my welfare, but I have no intention of disturbing the peace of any constituency at present. I regret we shall be unable to lunch with you on Thursday.”

                                                [Rings.

                                                [Enter SERVANT.

            Give this to Lord Faringhurst’s messenger when he comes.

                                                [Exit SERVANT with note.

            SHE. [Clasping her hands.] Oh, it is dreadful—you will not live yourself and you will not let me live. And human beings are meant to do things, that is why they count before all other creatures. They are not meant to eat and drink and sleep and do nothing—the world is tired of those, it has no use for them any more, and I did not mean to marry anyone of that sort.

            HE. Thank you. I think it would be a good thing if I went away for a time—alone; then you could have your makers of history and all the windbags here as much as you pleased—till I return. ...While I was away you might learn what I expected from you—

            SHE. [Getting angry.] You tell me a great deal about what you expect—you do not think that I should expect anything. ...In Vienna I led a wonderful life—a woman’s life, but it was full of interests and excitements that were not useless. If all women had useful interests—yes, and men too—men too, Richard, the world would be better, and there would not be so much time for things that are wicked or stupid or unkind. The mascot key of the world is work.

            HE. Oh!—[Impatiently turns away.] I was always afraid of marriage—we rushed into it—it is evidently a mistake.

            SHE. It is—it is a mistake—if this is it! [Passionately.] I am miserable—it was glorious to be free, but I didn’t know it.

            HE. Good. It was glorious to be free. I have felt that too. Perhaps we had better both be free again for a time.

            SHE. If you want life alone, actually, as well as in thought, I will go. [Pause. She has gradually worked herself up into a state of suppressed but intense excitement.] I will go back to Austria—there I was happy—I shall go back.

            HE. No, you will not...you will stay here.

            SHE. Why should I stay if I want to go?

            HE. Because it is my pleasure.

            SHE. [Quickly.] You will make me hate you. [He gives a shrug.] You do not believe it, because I have loved you so—but I can do it—I can hate too—love and hate are very near together, as near as a man and a woman—

            HE. As near as a man and a woman—who are better apart.

            SHE. That is so.

            HE. Better—far better apart.

[With a little haughty bow she sits down. He goes slowly out of the room. The door is left open. Pause. She looks up, pokes fire.

            SHE. [To herself.] A fire—in July! [Shivers. Then in a low voice.] Oh, I wonder—I wonder!

                                               

[Enter softly the COUNTESS AUGUSTA.

She is in outdoor dress, hat, etc.

 

            AUGUSTA. [Gaily.] What is it you wonder, my Blanche?

            BLANCHE. [Rises to her feet.] Augusta! I did not hear you—

            AUGUSTA. And I have only come for a moment—we are going to-night instead of to-morrow—to say Good-bye, for we start at 8 o’clock. But what is it you wonder?                                                                 [Sits.

            BLANCHE. Augusta, I wonder why I married. Only I know why I did...but I was free, unshackled, ready to work for my country if the chance came. I could go where I pleased, and when I liked, I was free!

            AUGUSTA. Ah! they talk so much about freedom—but it is not good, too much of it, for us women, my Blanche. And you are very happy now, for you love.

            BLANCHE. [In a toneless voice.] Love is not all.

            AUGUSTA. Not to a man—but to a woman, yes. Shall I tell you what is the matter? You are clever; and it is not good for you. The dear Count says that being clever spoils a woman’s natural pleasures and gives her a man’s disappointments without the strength to meet them.

            BLANCHE. [Amused.]You are a poor comforter, Augusta. Did he say it of me?

            AUGUSTA. Oh no, only to console me; for I am not clever, I am stupid!...He said you had a wonderful head, but—

            BLANCHE. Yes, go on?

            AUGUSTA. But that no woman ever had a wonderful head who did not pay for it some time with her heart.

            BLANCHE. [With a little laugh.] You are a very poor comforter, Augusta.

 

 

CURTAIN

           

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