ACT III

 

TIME: Two more years have elapsed. Afternoon.

 

SCENE: BLANCHE’s drawing-room in Green Street. There is a fire in the grate. In front of it she is sitting in a high backed armchair. Her hands are crossed on her lap and she gives an impression of loneliness. She looks a little older and graver. Some of the Visitors look older, talk together, and are less attracted by her than in ACT I. A long pause. Clock on the mantelshelf strikes; it seems to startle her; she looks up, and round the room, then relapses into reverie again.

Enter SERVANT announcing “MRS. PERCIVAL.” MILLICENT brings some roses, puts them on BLANCHE’s lap.]

            BLANCHE. [Pleased.] Ah, I’m glad when you come. [Takes up roses.] How sweet of you.

            MILLICENT. I’m always glad to come. But, dear Blanche, a fire?

            BLANCHE. I know—I was very cold.

            MILLICENT. But it’s so warm, almost summer.

            BLANCHE. [With a little shiver.] Is it?

            MILLICENT. I came early; I thought we might get a little talk before anyone arrived.               

[They sit.

            BLANCHE. Oh yes, it’s Saturday. [Bending towards the fire.] It’s Saturday every week...[Change of tone.] How is your little son?

            MILLICENT. He’s lovely—You haven’t seen him for nearly two months.

            BLANCHE. [Kindly.] No—but I should like to see him—

            MILLICENT. He runs about everywhere. [Lifts her head as if listening to him overhead.] I love to hear him patter across the nursery floor.

            BLANCHE. [Wistfully.] You must love it—patter, patter across the nursery floor—

            MILLICENT. [Half afraid.] If you only had a child—

            BLANCHE. [Little sound of dismay and longing but very distant.] A child! [Absently puts her arms together. Then abruptly] It’s nearly five o’clock.

            MILLICENT. [To cover her mistake.] And time for your visitors.

            BLANCHE. [With a shrug.] If any come. They are dwindling away and they’re not so exalted as formerly; they have been coming for five years—four years to me alone. ...[Cynically.] The new people don’t struggle to come any more.

            MILLICENT. Don’t they?

            BLANCHE. No. Only some one who is brought once—just once. It is part of his equipment for the world. ...In his middle age he will be able to say: “Oh yes; I went to her salon when I was young.” That’s all. [A little laugh and recovering.] But I don’t want them—there is a terrible sameness about them. Each one is intent on his own set of interests. They seem to enter with their packs anxious to display their wares, and to go, like so many pedlars. I am tired of them.

            MILLICENT. But the original worshippers are faithful; there’s Mr. Carstairs, for instance. He was reading to you the other day—

            BLANCHE. [With a little laugh and a grimace.] Oh yes, I am sorry for him; that is why I listen to his poems. He thinks he is going to be immortal, but in the day when all good work comes by its own there will be no sign of anything he has done. [As if without intention.] If Richard had chosen to work—the chances would have leaped to him...

            MILLICENT. Is he never coming back?

            BLANCHE. [Coldly.] He likes being abroad.

            MILLICENT. [Very gently.] Why don’t you go to him?

            BLANCHE. I like being here. [With a change of mood.] It’s good thing to be alone, to live your own life and to be free. There has been so much nonsense talked about freedom, but in freedom and loneliness power is born—and some things are better than happiness.

            MILLICENT. My dear Blanche, forgive me for saying it—but that is only high falutin’—with no comfort in it. I think a great deal of nonsense is talked about power too. We want happiness—it’s the most difficult thing of all to get, and does every one heap of good.

            BLANCHE. [Amused.] Millicent, Millicent, you have been thinking.

            MILLICENT. No, it’s Jack—somehow he always thinks the things that I am going to feel.       

[Pause.

            BLANCHE. [Trying not to show any eagerness.] Does Jack ever hear from Richard? [MILLICENT shakes her head.] Or of him? [Gets up, arranges roses.]

            MILLICENT. Sometimes he sees his name in print—

            BLANCHE. That is how I knew he was at Innsbruck two years ago. I saw his name in print.

            MILLICENT. [Half afraid to ask.] Do you know where he is now?

            BLANCHE. No, only that he went round the world...he may be back...I don’t know...I think it’s easier when he’s far off. ...[Fastening one rose at her waist] but I have been lonely sometimes.

            MILLICENT. You have kept every one at such a distance.

            BLANCHE. I know...I couldn’t help it; all these years I have felt as if I were a little boat tossing on an uneasy sea—the ships passed and the passengers waved their handkerchiefs, but nobody could reach me. ...Now the little boat is going over the horizon and out of sight.

            MILLICENT. What do you mean?

            BLANCHE. I shall go away. [Stands holding out her hands to MILLICENT, but avoids their being taken.] It’s impossible to bear it any longer—I cannot. I shall go back to my own country—to Vienna, or to Hungary; I want to see the great Hungarian plains once more, the infinite—infinite space.

            MILLICENT. But, Blanche dear, what will the worshipers do?

            BLANCHE. There is that woman in Ebury Street, Mrs. Ferrers. She is young and pretty and happy. Everybody goes to her now.

            MILLICENT. I’ve heard of her, but I never went there, did you?

            BLANCHE. No, and she never comes here.

            MILLICENT. [After hesitation.] I want to tell you something—perhaps you know already. But Jack heard it only lately—it has been kept a great secret—

            BLANCHE.  A secret—about Richard?

            MILLICENT. [Nods.] He wrote that book “Political Life” that made such a stir three years ago. [BLANCHE is speechless with surprise.] Isn’t it queer, a visitor was reading it at Innsburck when we were there, and Jack looked at it, but never dreamt it was his.

            BLANCHE. When we were at Innsburck?...I knew he could do things. He wrote it and never made a sign! How he must despise me, who thought he would do nothing. It doesn’t matter—he did it, he did it. [Looks up, her face is suffused with happiness.] If I’d only known at Innsburck!

            MILLICENT. We did so hope things would come right there. You said nothing when you came on to Silz?

            BLANCHE. No.

            MILLICENT. We didn’t dare ask what had happened—you seemed desperately anxious to get away from us.

            BLANCHE. Yes, I was desperately anxious to get away.

                                    [Enter SERVANT announcing “MR. CARSTAIRS.”

            BLANCHE. [To CARSTAIRS, trying to be polite.] How do you do?

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. Dead lady, I venture here again—Mrs. Percival?            [Shakes hands.

            MILLICENT. How do you do? [To BLANCHE.] I must go, but you’ll see me again soon.

            BLANCHE. [Eagerly.] Yes, soon—come back later to-day—I want you.

            MILLICENT. I will if I can.                                                                              [Exit.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [Fervently.] I hope you would be alone.

            BLANCHE. You want to discuss something?

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. No...it is happiness to be with you—and alone.

            BLANCHE. We all measure happiness differently.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. There is only one way for me.

            BLANCHE. Ah!...Tell me, is there any news—political news—or news about books?

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. I have not thought about news.

            BLANCHE. You have been too busy with your work?

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. I can’t work.

            BLANCHE. Perhaps you have written an epic and feel that you must rest after it?

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. I have written nothing. I shall never write again—unless you help me...You must listen to me, you must—

            BLANCHE. [Haughtily.] There is nothing that I must do.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. You know what I want to say—I love you, I love you. You are unhappy. I feel that your soul wrestles as mine does—that you need me.

            BLANCHE. I need you!

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. You need my love, as I do yours. I worship you, and cannot live without you.

            BLANCHE. You are talking nonsense.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. No—of life and death.

            BLANCHE. You are a poet, and life and death are easy words to you. Either you are talking nonsense, and I forgive you, or you are insulting, and I shall have you turned out. [Rings.] I am ringing for tea. [In answer to his alarmed look.] We must be soothed after this excitement. I shall forget your folly, and you will soon be ashamed of it.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. Oh, dear lady, if you knew—if you could dream—

            BLANCHE. I do not want to know or to dream.

[Enter SERVANT announcing “MR. HESKETH.” Exit.

But returns with tea, etc., and arranges it.

            BLANCHE. Here is the editor—most opportunely. How do you do, Mr. Hesketh? Mr. Carstairs is writing an epic—you shall publish it in your paper.

            HESKETH. Heaven forbid!

            BLANCHE. Oh! but it would be a great attraction.

            HESKETH. Most kind of you, my dear Mrs. Bowden, most kind of you—but a newspaper is for the vulgar; they have not yet learnt to appreciate epics.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [Trying to recover.] I must go—

            BLANCHE. [Sitting at tea table.] Oh no; you must have some tea, and be agreeable to Mr. Hesketh. He reviews epics even if he doesn’t publish them.

                                                [Enter SIR HORACE TAYLOR.

            BLANCHE. How is Sir Horace? [Shakes hands.]

            SIR HORACE. Quite well—and you? [Nodding to HESKETH and CARSTAIRS.] I congratulate you on your husband’s book—every one knows it now, but you kept the secret well. I have not seen him since we met at Innsbruck. You remember?

            BLANCHE. Oh yes; I remember.

                                                [The others look at her surprised.

            SIR HORACE. [Curiously.] Did you go to your villa on the mountain?

            BLANCHE. [Distantly.] Richard liked that villa.

            HESKETH. I suppose he will be home soon? It doesn’t take long to get round the world nowadays.

            BLANCHE. Richard is a leisurely person...Some tea?

            SIR HORACE. Thank you. ...Mrs. Ferrers will be so interested to hear he wrote that book; she was convinced it was some one else.

            HESKETH. I’m going on there presently.

            SIR HORACE. So am I.

            BLANCHE. [With a little laugh.] Worshippers at the new shrine. There are two things that always hold their own. Mystery—how fascinating it is! Should we any of us be good if heaven were an explored country?

            SIR HORACE. Or wicked, if the other place were? But what is the other thing?

BLANCHE. Firstness, newness—the first time—the new thing—it is wonderful. But when the firstness is over—the newness—then—it is different.

            SIR HORACE. That’s true; especially of marriage. ...[Turning to HESKETH.] By the way, I hear that Galton is going to get a divorce.

            HESKETH. That’s rather amusing.

            BLANCHE. [Cynically.] Is it? But such strange things are called amusing now. [Enter WIDHURST.] Ah, Mr. Widhurst, what is the theatrical news? Have you got a new part?

            WIDHURST. [Sitting down and nodding to the others.] Not yet, Mrs. Bowden. Managers appear to be out all day and on the stage all night, and they never answer letters, so it’s rather difficult to get at them.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. It’s worse for the author of a play. Parkinson—actor-manager and scoundrel—had one five months, a beautiful thing, purest tragedy in blank verse.

            WIDHURST. Of course—blank.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [Frowns.] I know its qualities well, Widhurst. It would have done for your Theatre of Intellect—what became of that?

            WIDHURST. I couldn’t get a theatre, and there wasn’t any intellect—at least not where there was any money.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. And the poet and the great dramatist—what are they to do?

            WIDHURST. [A shrug.] It’s no good being that sort of people till you’re dead, and then you don’t do anything; you belong to the largest leisured class in the world—or out of it.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [Sadly.] And the most beautiful—Immortality goes reaping among it.      

[Enter BERTRAM.

            BLANCHE. I hoped you would come.

            BERTRAM. [Aside to her.] I came to thank you.

            BLANCHE. It is settled?

            BERTRAM. [Nodding.] I heard from the Chief last night—Yes, some tea, if I may. This morning he sent for me.

           

[HESKETH and CARSTAIRS on one side standing together.

 

            HESKETH. [In a low tone.] It’s extraordinary that Bowden should have written that book.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. I can’t believe it now—he has cleverness, of course, but no genius.

            HESKETH. [Looking at his watch.] The one is often fatal to the other. He is a very remarkable man.

             ALGY CARSTAIRS. He is an abstraction, and unworthy of her. [Looking towards BLANCHE.] How beautiful she is, and full of poetry.

            HESKETH. She’s not what she was a few years ago. I shall never forget her the year that Bowden took himself off.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [In an undertone.] I could die for her.

            HESKETH. Ah, a young man often feels that sort of thing about a woman a year or two older than himself.

            BLANCHE. [Who is talking to BETRAM.] I’m so glad my little hint was useful.

            BERTRAM. It did everything. Lord Faringhurst wrote first, and this morning I heard it was all right.

            BERTRAM. I can never thank you enough.

            HESKETH. [Overhearing.] Has Mrs. Bowden been putting in a word for you, Bertram?

            BERTRAM. She is always doing good deeds.

                                                [Enter MRS. MARTIN, elderly.

            MRS. MARTIN. Dear Mrs. Bowden. Surrounded as usual—

            BLANCHE. How do you do? [Gets up.] Stay, do sit here, this chair is so comfortable.

            MRS. MARTIN. [Mistaking the chair offered.] Oh, no, I couldn’t sit there—it’s your place.

            BLANCHE. Yes, yes [smiling]—and some tea? Oh—it doesn’t matter.

[MRS. MARTIN with a bland smile has floundered  into BLANCHE’s chair, who is thus left standing;

she looks amused.

            BLANCHE. [Introducing.] You know Sir Horace Taylor—Mrs. Martin.

            MRS. MARTIN. So pleased to meet you, Sir Horace. [To BLANCHE, so that he hears.] Such a famous man. [He is evidently disgusted.] There are always such interesting people here. [MRS. MARTIN makes business with the tea-things; WIDHURST hands her cake, etc. To WIDHURST.] I feel sure you are a celebrity, too?

            WIDHURST. Oh no—I take a humble interest in the theatre—wish it returned the compliment.

[Enter SERVANT with note, “From Mrs. Percival,” for BLANCHE,  who moves apart from her visitors.

            BLANCHE. [Reads.] “Mr. Bowden is in England—Jack heard it. He is going away immediately.”

[She gives a little cry and scrunches the note in her hand.    

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. Mrs. Bowden, are you ill?

            BLANCHE. Oh, no; my head—that is all. It is nothing—I am tired perhaps.

[Smooths out note and reads it again.

            HESKETH. I must be going.

            SIR HORACE. So must I. Oh, I quite forgot to tell you a funny story. [Laughs.] I met Grimshaw last night. Asked him when he was going to marry again; said he didn’t think he should—white women were so much alike he never could tell his own wife from another man’s, and he didn’t like black women.                                            

[He and HESKETH laugh.

            MRS. MARTIN. [Primly.] It’s not a very pleasant story.

            SIR HORACE. Awfully funny, you know.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. I don’t see any point in it. Do you, Mrs. Bowden?

            BLANCHE. [Looking up.] I fear I wasn’t listening; it was very rude of me.

            BERTRAM. [Sympathetically.] We ought to go away. Mrs. Bowden is tired.

            BLANCHE. Oh no.

            HESKETH. I must go.

            SIR HORACE. And I’m due in Ebury Street. Good-bye, Mrs. Bowden—so glad about the book.

            HESKETH. I’ll come with you.

            SIR HORACE. Capital! Come too, Carstairs? Mrs. Ferrers delights in the rising poet. We’ll introduce you.

            SIR HORACE. [Aside to HESKETH, while CARSTAIRS is bending over her hand.] She is getting almost dull; that story was thrown away upon her.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [Aside to BLANCHE.] Let me stay a little while.

            BLANCHE. [Bewildered.] No, I would rather you went.

            ALGY CARSTAIRS. [To BLANCHE.] You forgive me?

            BLANCHE. Forgive? Oh yes—

            HESKETH. [To her.] Good-bye. We ought to have known sooner about that book.

[BLANCHE shakes hands with him and with SIR HORACE.

They depart with CARSTAIRS.

            MRS. MARTIN. You were so kind to me the other day about the plot of my new novel, Mrs. Bowden. [Opens black bag, brings out MS.]

            BERTRAM [Aside to WIDHURST.] Do let’s get her away. Mrs. Bowden is very tired.

            MRS. MARTIN. [Goes on.] I wanted to consult you on one more point. I make Philip marry the wrong woman—the dramatic side will interest Mr. Widhurst—

            BLANCHE. I am too stupid to-day, I fear—

            WIDHURST. I wish you’d consult me, Mrs. Martin. I’m rather a dab at that sort of thing. My sister wrote a novel, so did my aunt. If you will let me drive you to North Kensington; you said you lived there the other day—charming neighbourhood—we might talk it over on the way. I know Mrs. Bowden has a headache, but my head’s in particularly good condition. If you don’t mind coming now—

            BLANCHE. [Grateful to WIDHURST.] Oh—

            MRS. MARTIN. I shall be delighted.                                                                                        [Gets up.

            BLANCHE. Good-bye. I shall see the result in print. Mr. Widhurst is splendid—so clever.

                                                [They go, only BERTRAM is left.

            BLANCHE. [To BERTRAM.] That nice man took her away out of kindness.

            BERTRAM. It really was noble of him. [Hesitates.] I’m going too—If I can be of any service to you at any time, do let me. I shall never forget all you have done for me.

            BLANCHE. When do you go to India?

            BERTRAM. Next month. I shall often think of you—and write too, if I may, and tell you how the appointment works out.

            BLANCHE. Yes, do.                                                               [Exit BERTRAM.

           

[BLANCHE alone; sits by the fire again.

Servant takes away tea. A pause. Enter MILLICENT.

BLANCHE gets up and waits, unable to speak.

           

            MILLICENT. I thought you might want me.

            BLANCHE. [As if afraid to ask.] Yes, I want you. Tell me all you know.

            MILLICENT. It is hardly anything. George Austin saw him two nights ago at Euston. He had just arrived from Japan or somewhere. He is leaving London again to-night.

            BLANCHE. But where is he?

            MILLICENT. Brown’s Hotel.

            BLANCHE. [Desperately.] Oh, if he would see me and take me back. I cannot bear it or pretend any longer. I want him back.

            MILLICENT. [Astonished.] Blanche! Go to him.

            BLANCHE. I am afraid—I did—a month after Innsbruck, he was in London for two nights before he sailed—

            MILLICENT. Yes?

            BLANCHE. He was like a stone to me. It is killing me—I deserve it; for I was cruel, brutal, detestable at Innsbruck.

            MILLICENT. [Still astounded.] We thought you didn’t care. You seemed to exult in your freedom.

            BLANCHE. I did for a little while. I wouldn’t let myself think o feel—it was as if against my will—my underwill—I was carried over a tide...but it has all been a disguise of my love for him, of my desperation. Why shouldn’t I say it? He is mine though he stays away all the days of his life—he is mine.

            MILLICENT. [Still wondering.] And all the time you have cared?

            BLANCHE. [Distracted.] Cared? For good or ill he has not been one instant out of my thoughts since we parted. Some hours have been calm—I buoyed myself up with a sham happiness—but it has seemed as if in some secret place—that was always near—there was a rack that mercilessly drew me to it for a little spell or a long one—just as might be—every day or night, sometimes one and sometimes the other—and bound me to it, and ground at my heart and soul, and every pulse that is in me...

            MILLICENT. Something must be done.

            BLANCHE. [As if she had not heard.] And he is there—not ten minutes off, yet I dare not go to him. He wouldn’t even see me. I know it.

            MILLICENT. Let Jack go to him. They knew each other so well as one time. He is downstairs, he didn’t like to come up. But let him go to Mr. Bowden.

            BLANCHE. It would be no good. He would talk about his convictions—he has built an altar to them and my happiness is the burnt sacrifice offered up upon it.

            MILLICENT. What did he say when you went to him—in London, I mean?

            BLANCHE. [Bitterly, and as if in a dream.] He said that we had decided to live apart; that I had not cared for the life he gave me, nor to live in his house, so he had left me to the life I liked in the house I had bought; that admiration and freedom were what I prized most, and now they were mine; that I had said at Innsbruck my love for him was over and finished and everything between us was at an end—and it was true—it was at an end. His manner froze me, paralysed me—and I went. [MILLICENT tries to caress her, but she shakes her off.]...If I only knew how he lives and whether there is any other place he calls home. Or if he would come back for just a little while I might bear the separate ways again. I could bear reproaches, anger, anything but the silence and this empty house—this starving for sight and sound of him.

              MILLICENT. Do let Jack go to him. It can’t make things worse—it might do some good.

            BLANCHE. I wonder—I wonder—

            MILLICENT. Or write to him?

            BLANCHE. [Hesitates—then suddenly.] Yes, yes, I’ll write to him. And Jack shall take it. [Goes towards writing-table on the L well down stage. Turns to MILLICENT.] Go down, dear, and tell Jack—ask him if he’ll go—I must be alone while I write. Come back in five minutes and bring him. [MILLICENT takes her hands, kisses them, and goes. BLANCHE, left alone, kneels or throws herself down on a chair—passionately repeats the words as she writes them.]

            “Richard, my Richard—come back. I am longing for you, dying for you. Come back. I send you this rose—[plucks it from her dress]—I have covered it with kisses—come to me, I cannot bear life without you.—Your own—yours and yours, BLANCHE.”

 

[Folds the letter, puts it for a moment against her face. 

Enter JACK and MILLICENT.

 

            BLANCHE. [Giving not to JACK.] Take it—bring him back—

            JACK. [Taking note and rose.] I will, I swear I will. Let Millicent wait with you. Only a little while and I will bring him to you as I did the night he first saw you.

            BLANCHE. Oh!—if you do—if you do!

            JACK. I will, dear friend, I will.                                                                                                            [Exit

            BLANCHE. [With a shudder and looking towards the clock.] A few minutes—and I shall know my fate—shall be in Heaven, or for ever shut out from it.

                                                                       

                                                Enter SERVANT announcing “MRS. VYNOR.”

 

            MRS. VYNOR [Evidently worried.] I came late on purpose. I hoped I might find you alone.

            BLANCHE. [Aghast at her coming.] Yes, I am alone, except for Mrs. Percival—but it is late—and—

            MRS. VYNOR. [Hesitatingly.] I do so want to speak to you.

            MILLICENT. I’ll go into the next room to write a note—if I may?                                

[Exit MILLICENT

            BLANCHE. [Piteously.] I’m very tired to-day—

            MRS. VYNOR. I will only stay a few minutes. You were so kind long ago when my little girl was ill—and when she died you made me feel the Majesty of Death...and so much I’d never thought of before.

            BLANCE. Ah, poor thing, I remember about the child. But I don’t remember being kind.

            MRS. VYNOR. Oh, but you were indeed; and now I come again. I want you to help me—

            BLANCHE. [Wonderingly.] To help you? How can I help you? [The effort to be calm puts a wild look into her eyes.]

            MRS. VYNOR. I’m so unhappy about Geoffrey. This last year or two I have altered—I have read a great deal and been to meetings and I see things differently. Last week I spoke at a meeting and he hated it. He won’t let me do the things I want to do. He doesn’t understand that the world has changed—for women.

            BLANCHE. Oh yes, it has changed, but not in the way that many women think. What are you going to do?

            MRS. VYNOR. He says he can’t care for me if—if I do this sort of thing. I thought that perhaps you would advise me. If I were to separate from him and be free as you are? Would people say things—would they think there has been anything wrong?

            BLANCHE. [Scornfully.] People! What do they matter? [Walks across the room and stops before MRS. VYNOR.] Why did you marry your husband? Because he was rich?

            MRS. VYNOR. No.

            BLANCHE. Because you were tired of not being married?

            MRS. VYNOR. No. Because I loved him—I love him still, but there are other things—

            BLANCHE. [With a curiously defiant manner.] Oh yes, there are other things—but unless we have love—the love of those we love—the world is empty. We are two women standing here alone, and it’s better to face the truth; men can do without love, can be happy or content, but women can’t—it’s no good pretending. They can’t—can’t—till they are old and burnt out, and then thy are mourners at a funeral. ...

            MRS. VYNOR. [A little scared.] But women are doing so much nowadays one doesn’t want to be out of it, and heaps of them are happy without love.

            BLANCHE. [Shakes her head.] No, they only act as if they were. They want human ties—close—close ties. They are taking makeshifts. ...That is why I’m so sorry, for them. ...And if men had treated them differently women wouldn’t have clamoured for the vote—nor broken windows—life would have been full enough.

            MRS. VYNOR. [Blankly.] Men are clever and stronger than we are, I suppose; that is why—why—

            BLANCHE. [Calmer.] Oh yes, it is why—why many things; but of two people one must be the stronger. And our weakness—the inward secret weakness of our hearts—puts us at their mercy. This—this is the real tragedy of our sex, its handicap. We try to hide it, to conquer it, but we can’t—can’t—and if women get the power they are struggling for, it will be a husk unless they have love too.

            MRS. VYNOR. But why can’t we have both? We are not stupid any more.

            BLANCHE. [Holds out her arms with a gesture of despair, the with a queer little laugh.] Ah!...We are what we are and we can go so far—let us go. ...The leopard cannot change his spots nor the black man his skin, nor woman her nature...and nothing fights for its own as Nature does. ...Oh, I have thought it over—all these years—thought and thought till I am tired of thinking. Women may reach out to the world with pride and joy feeling their capacities—and they have them—but in the end they come back to their own for happiness or—[with a little gasp] for peace. That does not mean that they are not to use the capacities, but...that they should be wise gardeners.

            MRS. VYNOR. And what am I to do?

            BLANCHE. Go home—and think too—think it all over. ...I want you to go now [very gently as if it is an entreaty], I’m ill and tired.

            MRS. VYNOR. [Still a little scared.] You look so unhappy—

            BLANCHE. I have been, I may be—I don’t know. Perhaps I am very happy—I am waiting. So much of women’s lives is spent in waiting.

            MRS. VYNOR. You are waiting for—

            BLANCHE. [Desperately.] You mustn’t question me. I can’t bear it. ...There are plenty of things in life for women—go home and take those you can reach to. Go home—and look pretty and laugh; men are not won by tears—tell him that you love him—and be thankful for the sound of his voice—[In a half reckless, half scornful voice.]

            MRS. VYNOR. But there’s such a thing as spirit.

            BLANCHE. Oh yes, there’s such a thing as spirit; but one has to make the best of life with the material there is to hand. It is foolish to suffer hunger and thirst, or to die of cold when water and food and shelter are near.

            MRS. VYNOR. [Firmly and surprised.] Mrs. Bowden, you don’t understand—and you have changed so—you seem to have gone back—to be worsted somehow—

            BLANCHE. Just now you said that men were cleverer and stronger than women—

            MRS. VYNOR. Yes—yes—and they must be—for women are such hero-worshippers; they don’t see it yet—they don’t know it—but that’s what the woman-movement means, for as women reach high they will want men to reach higher, so that they may love them still—

            BLANCHE. [Quickly.] They want that more than anything in the world, and to be loved back.

            MRS. VYNOR. [Half despairingly.] Yes, more than anything in the world.                                                                                          [Exit.

[BLANCHE stands quite still.

                                                [Re-enter MILLICENT from the other room.

            MILLICENT. I heard her go.

            BLANCHE. [Standing dazed.] I am glad she came, for at the last she said a wise thing—perhaps it is an upward movement. ...But Millicent, what a Juggernaut love is—women try to keep out of its way—and pay dearly if they succeed. Some throw themselves under it desperately, and some joyfully, as I shall—it is on every road—coming—or going...[MILLICENT nods her head, BLANCHE looks at the clock with a gasp.]...It must be time.

            MILLICENT. They will be here directly. ...

                                                [They wait nervously listening and watching the clock.

            BLANCHE. [Desperately.] It is such a little way. The letter must bring him—and if he’s angry and won’t read it, he’ll see the rose, and—                                              

[Turns away.

            MILLICENT. He must come.

            BLANCHE. He must come...[Uplifted and happiness breaking over her face] I can feel that he will...[Restless, crosses the room, listens and returns.] I’ll persuade him to go away from this house. ...[Pause.] I’ve wandered up and down the stairs and buried my head in every cushion to drive back the agony that stupefied me—and the memory of it clings to the walls and to everything between them. ...I will make him take me to the country. Or well go abroad—together. ...I know he’ll come, I can see him—and just how he will look. At first he will be a little cold and stiff—

            MILLICENT. Jack would take me in his arms and cover me with kisses if he were making up a quarrel.

            BLANCHE. It hasn’t been a quarrel—[half resenting] and Richard is not that sort of man. He’ll come in and hesitate, and say “You sent for me?” And I shall say “Yes—yes.” And then I shall go up to him—and he will stand still—and—Hark! he is coming. [Listens.] Yes, they have come! [Flies to door.]

            MILLICENT. [Holds her back.] It will only be a second longer.

            BLANCHE. [Transfixed.] One man’s step—one.

[She staggers back as the door opens. Enter JACK;

he stands quite still. She waits dumb and trembling.

            MILLICENT. Jack, speak—[hesitates]—you must.

            BLANCHE. Was he there?

            JACK. He has been there—he has gone.

            BLANCHE. Gone!

            JACK. Three hours ago.

            BLANCHE. [In a dead voice.] Where?—when does he return?

            JACK. They don’t know. He is going on some expedition—they thought two years—or less or more—they were quite vague.

            BLANCHE. Two years!...I shall be dead. ...It won’t matter, I shall be dead. [They go forward, she makes a little sign to keep them back.] Where is the letter—and my rose?

            JACK. I put them into a little cardboard box. They are to forward letters when he telegraphs an address. I thought it might go with them.

            BLANCHE. I see. Thank you, Jack. [Gently, but in a cold stately voice, as they go forward again.] Don’t touch me. ...You will go now...you won’t mind? I must be alone.

            MILLICENT. Mayn’t I stay a little?

            BLANCHE. I think not dear—if you will forgive me. [Turns to JACK and says gently] Take her away. I must be alone if I am to keep my senses or even to live. But I shall never forget what you two have done for me this night.

            JACK. If there is anything more in the world—

            BLANCHE. I know—you will do it.

[She holds out her hands as if entreating, and they go.]

[BLANCHE alone. She goes to the chair by the fire  again and sits  very still with her hands on her lap. Enter SERVANT with a note.

            SERVANT. The messenger is waiting for an answer, ma’am.

            BLANCHE. Ah! [Rises to her feet, see the handwriting, hurriedly reads letter, and her excitement dies away. She sits again, and she says in a dull voice.] Bring me the writing-pad. [Looks towards writing-table. He brings it.] Come back in two minutes.                                                                                          

[Exit SERVANT.       

            BLANCHE. [Reading note aloud.] “I am very happy again. I told him it was your doing. I love you.—CLARE VYNOR.” [BLANCHE gives a long sigh. Writes. The pad is on her lap.] “I am glad. Be happy always.” [Rest indistinct. Folds note. SERVANT enters.] Put this down, and here is the answer.

                                                [Gives him pad and note. Exit SERVANT.

            BLANCHE. [Turns to the fire again. A long pause. Puts her face in her hands. Starts, listens, as if she heard something, shakes her head as if it couldn’t concern her.

            The door behind her opens, and RICHARD enters and hesitates. She slowly turns, sees him, and starts to her feet.] Richard! Rich-ard! [She holds out her arms for one minute. But he stands as if paralysed, and she drops them and speaks in a voice she can hardly control.] They said you had gone.

            RICHARD. [Coldly.] I had left something behind and went back—I found the note—and the rose.

                                                [She stands scared and waiting. He doesn’t move.

            BLANCHE. [At last manages to say.] And you forgive?—

            RICHARD. There was never any question of forgiving between us. We has both been wrong—both. I was a brute. [She shakes her head and shudders as if at the remembrance.] I was going away again—

            BLANCHE. [Under her breathe.] But you haven’t gone. [Then passionately.] Oh, these years, what they have been!

            RICHARD. I thought you were content with a life of your own.

            BLANCHE. [Shaking her head a little.] When I was with you I wanted to be part of your life. [Then with a burst of emotion.]...And to be loved—all women want that—more than anything in the world.

            RICHARD. [Under his breathe.] So do men, but they won’t own it—or don’t know it. [Pause. Almost doggedly and coldly.] I took the kisses off your rose.

            BLANCHE. Oh—[She stands still staring at him, paralysed.

            RICHARD. [Goes on as if speaking half to himself.] I know this—that I love you more than my life, and the thing I have longed for most in the world was to hold you in my arm again.

[She gives a cry of joy. They meet, and he holds her close.

            BLANCHE. And you will not go away again?

            RICHARD. Never without you—beloved.

 

 

 

CURTAIN.

 

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