ACT II

 

TIME: Two years later. Noon on an August day.

 

SCENE: The hall of the Kaiserhof at Innsbruck, large, well furnished, basket chairs, rugs, etc.; newspapers on tables,  etc. Down stage, L.C., a small table and chairs so arranged that two people can sit and talk. At back, C., facing stage, a side-door, or wide window; it should be open, showing snow-topped mountains and beautiful scenery beyond. At back, R., is the Bureau of the hotel, farther down stage the open front door of the hotel, which should be double and important. On L. upstage is the staircase, and farther down, but not too near the footlights, a door leading to the dining-room.

 

HENRY LANGTON stands looking at a newspaper. He puts it down, goes to window at back. An elderly man is sitting, L.C., reading a book. People pass in and out, etc.

 

Enter by front door R., JACK and MILLICENT PERCIVAL, very hot and dusty and in high spirits. They have been cycling, and are dressed accordingly.

 

            MILLICENT.  Thank goodness, we are at Innsbruck. I should have died if we’d had to go another mile.

            [HOTEL SERVANTS, HALL PORTER, etc., come forward.

            JACK. [To them.] All right. Our machines are outside. We don’t want rooms—only going to stay a couple of hours; a friend will meet us here directly. We’ll lunch when she arrives.                                     [SERVANTS bow and go.

 

                                    [HENRY LANGTON listens and cautiously looks round.

           

MILLICENT. [Coming down stage.] I hope she won’t be long.

            JACK. [Following her.] It was a pull, wasn’t it?

            MILLICENT. It was.

            JACK. [Seeing VISITOR.] How do you do? We met at Beyreuth last month.

            VISITOR. [Puts down book.] Of course. Did you cycle here?

            JACK. Yes.

            VISITOR. Rather warm for it?

            JACK. Grilling!

            MILLICENT. [Gaily.] And the hills—and the dust—and the things that sting—and the things that buzz!

            VISITOR. So I should imagine. Have you come far?

            JACK. Not to-day. We’ve been staying at Rosenheim.

            VISITOR. Have you come from there now?

            JACK. Well, no—but since yesterday. Only from Jenbach this morning. Quite enough, I can tell you, in this blazing heat.

            MILLICENT. [To JACK.] We did tell her the hotel was the Kaiserhof?

             JACK. Of course. ...Good Lord, it is hot!

            VISITOR. Are you staying here some time?

            JACK. No. Going on to Silz almost directly.

            VISITOR. What sort of a place is that?

            JACK. I don’t know—not been there yet, it’s near Landeck—five-and-twenty miles—and we’ve got to do it, that’s all I know.

            MILLICENT. [Looking round.] How lovely it is.

            JACK. Not bad.

            VISITOR. [Getting up.] Probably we shall meet at luncheon; you won’t go on without food?

            JACK. Not if we know it. ...Are there many English people here?

            VISITOR. Not many. That villa up there [pointing to a little white patch on the mountain-side seen through the open door at back] is occupied by two Englishmen; they usually come down about this time for their letters.

            JACK. [Looking up quickly.] Two Englishmen?

            VISITOR. They’ve been there some time, I’m told. ...You ought to see the church before you go—Maximilian’s Monument—it’s only a few minutes off.

            JACK. Must try—too hot now.

                                                [Exit VISITOR, leaving book on the table.

            MILLICENT. Oh—I am glad to rest.

            JACK. [Taking up book.] What has the old boy been reading?—Political Life...Looks interesting.

            MILLICENT. It sounds rather deadly—I can’t bear politics.

            JACK. Your sex is better without them, darling—far better. ...Wonder who the deuce wrote this?

 

                                                [HENRY LANGTON comes towards them.

 

            MILLICENT. [Excited.] Mr. Langton!

            LANGTON. [Drily.] How do you do? I recognised you directly; my back evidently had not the same effect on you.

            JACK. What an extraordinary thing to find you here. Where is Richard—is he with you?

            LANGTON. Yes, he’s up there—we’re the two Englishmen who have the villa. [Nodding towards it.] How do you come to be here?

            JACK. Been to Bayreuth.

            LANGTON. Oh. ...Seen anything of Mrs. Bowden lately?

            JACK. Saw her yesterday—by a fluke—she has been to Vienna—is on her way back to England; we agreed to meet here, at this hotel, and lunch. She’s driving from Jenbach.

            LANGTON. This is interesting.

            JACK. I always expected that Austria would draw them both.

            MILLICENT. She wanted to come to her own country again, of course; but why should he come?

            JACK. Because it is her country, and he met her first in it.

            LANGTON. Not at all—he always liked Innsbruck. He came to it several times before he met her—to his own disaster.

            JACK. And hers too.

            LANGTON. He’s a good chap.

            MILLICENT. Yes—but he’s an iceberg.

            LANGTON. An iceberg with a heart.

            MILLICENT. If the heart is in the middle of the iceberg it isn’t any good—for—for—

            JACK. For human purposes.

            LANGTON. Human purposes are often a nuisance. Are you intimate with her now, travelling together, or what?

            JACK. Intimate! No one is intimate with her any more than with him. It’s quite simple—she has been to Vienna, and we have been to Bayreuth. We saw her before we left London; she said she might be here about this date, so we determined to strike it—by great good luck we ran against her yesterday at Jenbach, where she had stopped to see a friend. We are going on to Silz and Landeck after we’ve fed and rested, and she is taking the train—somewhere; she didn’t tell us where.

            LANGTON. Not communicative? They are a curious pair. ...Well, she stands a sporting chance of running against Richard. He’ll be here directly.

            MILLICENT. Oh! what will happen? [With a little burst.] Mr. Langton, why did her husband desert her in that cruel manner? It’s two years since he went.

            LANGTON. [Drily.] I wasn’t aware that he deserted her except at her own wish. Has she complained much?

            MILLICENT. She hasn’t complained at all—she’s too proud even to speak of it.

            LANGTON. Then you don’t know the circumstances?

            MILLICENT. All we know is, that very soon after the day when we met you there—you were sitting over the fire, do you remember?

            LANGTON. Perfectly.

            MILLICENT. I believe they had a quarrel that day. I am certain they did—and soon afterwards he went away and has not been seen since. ...Her cousin Countess Augusta came again and stayed for nearly a month. She was so fat.

            LANGTON. Dear woman—I could love her. What do people say about Richard?

            MILLICENT. No one says much about him—of course they daren’t say anything to her.

            LANGTON. They went their separate ways without any scandal—they’ve done it most decently.

            MILLICENT. I wonder if she even dreams that he may be here. I’m quite certain she didn’t know where he was a month ago.

            LANGTON. She could write to his bankers. ...You probably heard that last year the fanatical uncle in Vienna left her a considerable fortune?

            MILLICENT. I knew he died, we saw it in the papers; but she never tells one anything.

            LANGTON. [Grimly.] They are well matched.

            MILLICENT. And is he never going back to England?

            LANGTON. Why should he? He has no home there now.

            MILLICENT. The one in Green Street.

            LANGTON. It is not his any longer. She inquired through an agent if he would sell it, and bought it with Zipernowsky’s money. There’s nothing to take him back.

            MILLICENT. And are they always to be separated?

            LANGTON. I don’t know—I never asked him.

            MILLICENT. Nor we her—

            LANGTON. [With a softer tone in his voice.] I’m sorry for Richard. He’s the only relation I don’t loathe—he came out to me in Italy—disappeared—turned up again—we came here, to the villa. ...I don’t believe they would ever get on together.

            JACK. He loved her from the moment he first saw her.

            LANGTON. Now did he?

            JACK. I’ll swear he did.  I shall never forget that night. I met him close to the Hofburg Theatre; he was going in to see a poetic drama by some wild Hungarian, whose portrait had afflicted the papers for a month past. I told him he’d better go to old Zipernowsky’s. He scoffed, then suddenly chucked the play and went with me. She was standing at the top of a big staircase—at the door of the salon-it was hung with ragged tapestry, and rusty arms; I saw them look at each other—it was like a flash of mystified recognition, the whole thing seemed to be inevitable—

            MILLICENT. It proves that they were born to love each other. And, if they met, and were alone, they might make it up and be happy. Let them have the chance.

            LANGTON. I’m afraid the chance would soon be over.

            MILLICENT. I would give the world to see things come right.

            LANGTON. [Looking at her with a vague surprise.] You seem to be extraordinary fond of her?

            MILLICENT. We both are. Yet she’s always rather distant—that little stately manner which she can’t get past. But yesterday—you know what she did yesterday, Jack?

             LANGTON. What did she do?

            MILLICENT. We met her at Jenbach in a curiosity shop. She invited us to tea and walked back with us to our little inn. I said, “yes” or “no, Mrs. Bowden,” of course; and suddenly she said, “I wish you would call me Blanche.” I could have knelt on the roadway and kissed her hands.

            LANGTON. Probably a dusty road, a good thing you didn’t.

            MILLICENT. There you are again.                                                                               [Laughing.

            JACK. You know, it’s a curious thing, the tragedy of these two people, for there’s nothing—nothing of the usual sort—in it.

            LANGTON. Hope on—it may arrive; while man is man, and woman is woman, there’s always a chance for the divorce court in the background.                                   [Pause.

            MILLICENT. You haven’t asked anything about us, Mr. Langton. I wonder if you know that we have a son?

            LANGTON. Really—a son! How old is he?

            MILLICENT. Just a year—he’s splendid.

            LANGTON. Of course, they always are—what will you do with him?

            MILLICENT. Do with him?

            LANGTON. Not decided on his profession yet?

            JACK. At present he counts as Chancellor of the Exchequer in the house—his taxes are fearful.

            MILLICENT. But we don’t mind a bit.

 

                                                            [Enter PORTER with a telegram.

 

            PORTER. [To JACK.] Percival—is that your name?

            JACK. Yes—for me, a telegram!

            PORTER. For you.                                                                                         

[Exit.

            JACK. [Tearing it open.] It’s from Mrs. Bowden. [Reads aloud.] “Please don’t wait. Am meeting Richard at Innsburcl; would rather you not there.’

            JACK. Good Lord, what an extraordinary thing.

            MILLICENT. They’re going to make it up!

            LANGTON. I’m astounded—he hasn’t said a word of this—

            JACK. [To MILLICENT.] We’d better go at once, she evidently wants us out of the way.

            MILLICENT. Of course she does—but I’m so frightfully hungry.

            JACK. [Hurrying her.] Never mind, we’re sure to pass some place where we can get food. Come along—our machines are outside. [To LANGTON.] She ought to be here now.

            LANGTON. [Who has not recovered from his surprise at the telegram.] Yes—scuttle. If there is anything Richard dislikes it’s observation.

            JACK. [To MILLICENT] Scuttle is the word. Come.

            MILLICENT. [Looking back.] Do what you can, Mr. Langton.

            LANGTON. [After a moment’s thought.] I will. But I shall serve them best by bolting too. [Looking out at doorway.] I see the postman coming along the road, I’ll wait for the letters—he usually leaves them here for us. ...Good-bye.

[The PERCIVALS go hurriedly by front door. LANGTON takes up book VISITOR had left, turns over the leaves with a significant smile. Enter VISITOR.

            LANGTON. Oh!—you are looking for this?                                                                

[Gives him book.

            VISITOR. Thank you. An excellent work, have you read it?

            LANGTON. Yes, some time ago. Excellent, as you say.

                                                [Postman enters. Goes up to Bureau. A bell rings.

            VISITOR. And there is the luncheon bell.

                                                [VISITOR gets his letters and exit.

            LANGTON. [At bureau.] Are there any for us?

                                                [Is looking through letters handed to him when

RICHARD BOWDEN enters.

            LANGTON. Hullo! I’m just going—no letters for you.

            RICHARD. I met the postman on the way, he gave me mine.

                                                [Pulls a packet from his side pocket.

            LANGTON. [About to go.] You’ll be back presently?

            RICHARD. Wait a moment, I want you.

            LANGTON. [Coming down stage.] You’ll be surprised to hear that a belated idiot staying at this hotel has got your book. He has just told me it’s an excellent work. Why don’t you let the world know and applaud you?

            RICHARD. [Shortly.] I would rather not. In another year or two I shall probably take to active politics.

            LANGTON. If they are not too corrupt by then. ...I must hurry back. ...important letters to write before post time.

            RICHARD. Look here. [Opens a letter in his hand, pulls out some printed leaflets, etc.] I wrote to Cook’s people lately. I think of going round the world. They’ve sent me particulars.

                                                           

[Puts them down on side table.

LANGTON. Lord!

            RICHARD. But my plans may be suddenly changed, at least—

            LANGTON. Changed?

            RICHARD. Just now a telegram was brought up to the villa—from Blanche. She is coming here to meet me.

            LANGTON. I know—the Percivals turned up just now.

            RICHARD. [Surprised.] The Percivals?

            LANGTON. [Nodding.] Cycling. She was to have met them here and lunched, but she telegraphed that she was meeting you and told them to get out of the way—so they’ve gone on.

            RICHARD. Oh! [Pleased by anxious, then abruptly.] How were they?

            LANGTON. Just the same—evidently billing and cooing still. [RICHARD wrinkles his brow.] They have a son.

            RICHARD. [Gravely, as if he envied them.] A son—by Jove, a son. 

[Pause.

            LANGTON. I thought Blanche didn’t know you were here?

            RICHARD. She explains that in some visitor’s list she saw my name and address, and asks me to meet her at one ‘clock at this hotel. She is driving to Silz.

            LANGTON. Oh!—I’ll bolt. [Hesitates.] We shall hear her arrive. I shall have time before she comes in. [Looks at door L.] She probably means to try and straighten things out—if you want to bring her to the villa and honeymoon, I’ll go to Zell-am-See.

            RICHARD. [As if against his will.] I wish it would turn out so.

            LANGTON. [Astonished.] Look here, we have never discussed her—hardly spoken of her. Forgive me for speaking now, but this thing ought to be set right—you are as obstinate as you can stick—but it’s probably playing the devil with both your lives.

            RICHARD. [Between his teeth.] It is with mine, I know that.

            LANGTON. You may be certain it is with hers, the woman always comes off worst. I know she hit you hard in the first instance—

            RICHARD. I never cared for any other woman—never shall.

            LANGTON. All the same, you were not quite fair to her.                     

                                                [They have sat down.

            RICHARD. [Sharply.] How wasn’t I fair?

            LANGTON. Well, you see, you only thought of your point of view, it didn’t occur to you that she might have one.

            RICHARD. Women should take their point of view from their husbands.

            LANGTON. My dear chap, that’s rot; education has played the devil with women, jus as it has with the working classes—opened their eyes to their own capacities, given them the tip to cultivate them, and made them clamour—

            RICHARD. For things they’d be better without.

            LANGTON. That isn’t the question. They’ve got to have them, to a certain extent—not all they want. I wouldn’t give them the vote—see ’em damned first—but they expect to have a decent time now—and they meant to have it. They’ve grown more intelligent and they want a share, and a voice too, in the affairs of the world. Personally—to thrust my opinion on you again—I think they should only have it from their own homes and on matters that concern them.

            RICHARD. [Impatiently.] Well, I don’t object to that.

            LANGTON. But you expected Blanche to settle down with only your blessed society—when you chose to give it her—and you were never very genial—to wait on your moods and tempers; but never to have hers taken into account. I’m very fond of you, but I think you’d be the deuce for an ordinary woman to live with—

            RICHARD. She’s not an ordinary woman.

            LANGTON. Which made it worse. ...You won’t recognise it because—I’m sorry to repeat it—you’re  as obstinate as the devil, but the relations of men and women are undergoing a readjustment, and if they only take it sensibly, each side will get more out of the other. When we’ve progressed a little further we shall hang any man who kicks his wife downstairs, and strangely any woman who gets drunk, but in spite of it, or because of it, we shall have more toleration between the sexes and get on a good deal better.

            RICHARD. I don’t want to listen to a dissertation on the relations of men and women—I wish you’d go back.

            LANGTON. I’m going. But remember, if you want to turn me out and bring her there, I’ll go—off like a rocket on a November night. It’s what would happen if you really cared about her.

            RICHARD. Cared about her—[almost fiercely, but as if against his will] I love her more than my life. She has never been out of my thoughts—she’s the background of everything.

            LANGTON. [With feeling.] You’d better put her in the foreground again. [Just touches RICHARD’s hand.]

            RICHARD. I wish to God she would come there.

            LANGTON. She will—depend upon it, if you manage her properly. [Looks round.] I should order a sitting room—tell them to stick some flowers about—and have her shown up to it when she comes—you can’t do much in this setting.

            RICHARD. [Looking up with a little smile.] I’d better see how the land lies first—she’s an imperious lady.

            LANGTON. If she isn’t subdued—

            RICHARD. I did it once.

            LANGTON. Do it again.

            RICHARD. She was the most splendid creature in the world when I first met her—

            LANGTON. She was—when you brought her to England.

            RICHARD. You should have seen her as I saw her first, standing at the entrance of the great salon in the Zipernowsky palace. There was a light in her eyes that seemed to claim me—

            LANGTON. I’ve heard something of this before, it must be true—I expect all this estrangement has been a madness.

            RICHARD. Or the marriage was one. [Looks at his watch.] She ought to be here—Jenbach isn’t very far.

            LANGTON. I believe she’s a nice woman—humour her a bit—get her back and don’t be a fool. After all she only wanted a fling.

            RICHARD. She shall have a fling if we set matters right—as big a fling as she pleases. ...I couldn’t have stood any other woman for a week.

            LANGTON. You’re in an excellent frame of mind, my dear chap. I shall go and look for my empty portmanteau. ...[Listens.] She’s there, I heard something stop. Good luck.    

[Exit hurriedly.

[RICHARD draws back watching the door R. Arrival bell rings.  Hotel servants appear, a couple of trunks are carried in. RICHARD goes forward. SIR HORACE TAYLOR enters.

            SIR HORACE. [Astonished.] Hullo, Bowden, how do you do? Quite a surprise; haven’t seen you for years—two years anyhow.

            RICHARD. [Taken aback for a moment.] How do you do?

            SIR HORACE. We passed your wife—she’s driving and we’re motoring—you’re waiting for her, of course?

            RICHARD. Yes.

            SIR HORACE. Staying in this hotel?

            RICHARD. No.

            SIR HORACE. We’ve been to Bayreuth—went by Munich, going home by this route. [To HOTEL SERVANT.] You reserved our rooms? I telegraphed. Lady Taylor and my son will be here to-morrow; I came on in front of them. [To RICHARD.] They wanted to see Salzburg on their way here, so they’re staying behind for a day or two; I’m going to send back the motor for them. [To PORTER carrying bag, etc.] I’ll follow you. Stay—is lunch going on?

            SERVANT. Yes, sir.

            SIR HORACE. Well, take up my things, I’ll go in and eat—I’m famished. [Goes towards dining-room. Looks back and says] I expect you’ll wait for your wife?

            RICHARD. [Who has taken up paper.] Yes.

[Exit SIR HORACE. RICHARD alone. Business. Arrival bell rings. A carriage is heard stopping. He comes down stage and stands watching door R. Servants go forward, etc.

BLANCHE. [Voice heard without.] In half an hour I shall continue my journey; I shall not be longer. You can wait there. No, no luggage is to be brought in. Is Mr. Bowden here?

            SERVANT. Yes, madame.

[BLANCHE is dressed in travel clothes. All though the interview her manner is imperious and cold; her voice is sometimes passionate and scornful, but there is no anger or ill-feeling in it. Against his will, RICHARD evidently feels her fascination. He goes towards her as she enters.

            BLANCHE. [Meeting him about centre and slightly touching the hand he holds out. To HOTEL PORTER.] That will do. [Waves him away. Then to RICHARD.] I was surprised to come across your name in that list—which I saw only by accident. You have a villa here?

            HE. That villa up on the mountains.

                                                [She follows direction of his eyes, then turns away quickly.

            SHE. Are you there alone?

            HE. A friend is staying with me.

            SHE. Ah! a friend.                                                                   

[Looks round as if deciding where to sit.

            HE. We can’t talk here very well. I was about to ask for a salon when you arrived.

            SHE. [Firmly.] Oh no, this will do quite well. I prefer it. There is not much to say. ...I did not expect you would come to Innsbruck any more.                           

[Sits down by table C.

            HE. I have always liked Austria, and Innsbruck is one of my oldest haunts. Why should I avoid it now?

            SHE. [With a shrug.] Ah, why?                                              

[Signs to him to sit.

            HE. You have been in Vienna?

            SHE. In Vienna—to see my relations and to look after my property. The Zipernowsky palace is sold. [In half-pathetic voice, and as if inadvertently.] They are going to pull it down and build municipal building on its site. It is a tragedy.

            HE. I agree—a tragedy. And now—

            SHE. I am on my way back to London. And you?

            HE. [Frozen by her manner.] At present my plans are indefinite.

            SHE. You are not coming to England?

            HE. I have no longer a home there.

            SHE. [With a little formal surprise.] Oh?

            HE. You were good enough to buy it.

            SHE. Naturally—since you did not stay there I did not choose to live in your house any more. Till it was my own I felt that you were giving me your charity—

            HE. [Staring at her.] My charity?

            SHE. This is why I wished to see you—why I telegraphed. I felt that we must have an explanation. Every quarter your banker sends me money. I wrote to him, it was useless. To your lawyer, it was useless also. I did not know your address till I saw it in that list. Every quarter that money is paid into my account. It is an insult, and I will not have it.

            HE. And it was to make this statement that you desired to meet me?

            SHE. Yes, since to say it elsewhere has been useless.

            HE. It is usual for a man to support the woman he has married.

            SHE. [Cold and courteous.] But we are not together any more—we have separated—there are no children—there is no tie between us, except a legal one, which is only—[A shrug.]...I want nothing form you—I will take nothing. I have sufficient money—I had enough before my uncle died—now I have more than enough.

            HE. And you are content with the life you are living, in your own house, spending your own money?

            SHE [with a smile.] Quite content—it is all I want.

            HE. All?

            SHE. [Cold and firm.] All.

            HE. You were not satisfied with the life I gave you.

            SHE. You did not give me any—after the first months. [A little break in her voice.] You only gave me food and shelter, and money if I wanted it. If you lived any life yourself that was worth calling one—I do not know. You gave me nothing but what I have said, and you disliked that I should make a life for myself—or we might each have been satisfied.

            HE. And my love?

            SHE. Oh! it was such a poor thing; it was reckoned such a long way after your consideration for yourself—that I prefer not to discuss it. Any love I had for you is over and finished. I prefer also not to discuss that...I can never forgive your leaving me as you did.

            HE. We were neither of us satisfied, we were not happy together. I did the best thing for both of us. You like the life you have now—

            SHE [triumphantly, yet half sadly.] Yes! I know how the world is moving, what it is doing; I have power and place—

            HE. Power and place!

            SHE. The manner of life that satisfied me in Vienna before you came—I love it. ...I have loved it again since you went.

            HE. [Politely.] Obviously there is nothing more to be said.

            SHE. [With a queer little laugh.] It has all been so absurd—it began because I gathered people round me. I was ambitious for you—for you, who had done nothing in the world since you went on the diplomatic mission to Petersburg when you were twenty-five or twenty-six—twelve years before we met—for twelve years you had done nothing. ...Naturally I did not want that to continue; and for myself, I could not be content with the life of the average woman of thirty years ago.

            HE. [Impatiently.] It was better than the restlessness of the women of to-day—which is the result of men being too generous.

            SHE. Generous!—how have they been generous?

            HE. They have opened too many doors to women.

            SHE. Oh yes, they have opened doors—because women were beating against the bars—but they dislike seeing them go through—they grudge it, sometimes they hate it. We will not discuss that or we shall come to the Suffrage, and I am not a Suffragette—though I understand now the atmosphere that evolved them. ...It is tradition that has hampered you—the traditions of years and years ago concerning women.

            HE. They were more than traditions, I have my convictions.

            SHE. Oh yes, you have your convictions. And we parted, and you went away to nourish them.

            HE. I repeat—it was wise.

            SHE. It was wise, no doubt. [With a little forced laugh.] I am glad you went, for I do not love any more.

            HE. [Calmly and gravely.] You are very certain of your own point of view. It hasn’t occurred to you that there is any other worth considering, that a man may possibly want to think and dream in peace—if he can afford the luxury of time—that he may want to be sure of himself before he attempts anything worth the doing. [Pause.] As for women, there is an army of women workers to-day for whom all men, who think and know about things, have admiration and respect. But there are other women, especially women in what we are pleased to call Society who seem to think that the world is carried on by silly committees and tea-parties, hurrying here and there, chattering and worrying, and never calmly possessing their own souls till they die—and then, God knows what becomes of them.

            SHE. [Taken aback.] At silly committees and tea-parties many ropes are pulled that help the crowd waiting beneath—the people who cannot make their own voices heard. ...Now I have said what I came to say, and I am going. [She bows and avoids shaking hands, rises, gathers up her gloves.]

            HE. [Astounded at the whole interview.] You are going! It was to say this that you came here—for no other reason?

            SHE. Oh yes, I am going. I came for no other reason. [She is about to go when the tone of his voice arrests her; he leans a little forward as he speaks.]

            HE. You wish to be free, perhaps—free to marry elsewhere?

            SHE. [Quickly.] No, I do not wish to marry elsewhere—I have all the freedom I want. ...But you, do you wish it?

            HE. No. ...But you are young...beautiful. [She shrugs.] You could marry more happily?

            SHE. I have said...but—again—it is for yourself you speak?...you wish— [He shakes his head] not to make other ties?

            HE. No. I prefer the hard and fast boundary our—what was once our—marriage sets up.

            SHE. But you have a friend at the villa?

            HE. The friend is my cousin, Henry Langton.

            SHE. Ah yes. That prevents you from being lonely—through you always liked being alone.

            HE. As you do?

            SHE. [Wearily.] Yes, as I do. [To a PORTER, who crosses the stage at the back.] Would you see if the carriage is there? [Looks round.] It is very beautiful here—this place, I mean. I like to think it is a bit of my country. ...[Then to RICHARD.] I hope the villa is pleasant; it looks so charming from here. [She bows, turns away from him and goes towards the door by which she had entered. Then in a voice that is cold and yet full of suppressed feeling.] I wish you a great deal of happiness. [He bows. Hotel servants come from the background. To them.] The carriage is there? I am going—

            SERVANT. [Surprised.] You go already, madame, you require nothing?

            BLANCHE. I require nothing—but to go.

            RICHARD. [Who has followed her two or three steps.] Let me see you to your carriage?

            BLANCHE. [In a voice that is for a moment unsteady.] Please not. [Firmly.] I would rather that you do not.                                               

[She turns to go.

[He bows and turns away, goes towards table at the side to take up letters and circulars about going round the world.

[She looks at him for one moment, hesitates, which he does not see, then with a quick step goes out.

[The carriage is heard going off. RICHARD stands listening, then sits, puts his head in his hands for a moment, rises abruptly, exit.

 

 

 

Act I <= TOP =>Act III