How I came, later on, to write plays which, dealing less with the crimes of society, and more with its romantic follies, and with the struggles of individuals against those follies, may be called, by contrast, Pleasant, is a story which I shall tell on resuming this discourse for the edification of the readers of the second volume.
(To be continued in our next.)
MRS. WARREN’S PROFESSION
ACT I
Summer afternoon in a cottage garden on the eastern slope of a hill a little south of Haslemere in Surrey. Looking up the hill, the cottage is seen in the left hand corner of the garden, with its thatched roof and porch, and a large latticed window to the left of the porch. Farther back a little wing is built out, making an angle with the right side wall. From the end of this wing a paling curves across and forward, completely shutting in the garden, except for a gate on the right. The common rises uphill beyond the paling to the sky line. Some folded canvas garden chairs are leaning against the side bench in the porch. A lady’s bicycle is propped against the wall, under the window. A little to the right of the porch a hammock is slung from two posts. A big canvas umbrella, stuck in the ground, keeps the sun off the hammock, in which a young lady lies reading and making notes, her head towards the cottage and her feet towards the gate. In front of the hammock, and within reach of her hand, is a common kitchen chair, with a pile of serious-looking books and a supply of writing paper upon it.
A gentleman walking on the common comes into sight from behind the cottage. He is hardly past middle age, with something of the artist about him, unconventionally but carefully dressed, and clean-shaven except for a moustache, with an eager, susceptible face and very amiable and considerate manners. He has silky black hair, with waves of grey and white in it. His eyebrows are white, his moustache black. He seems not certain of his way. He looks over the paling; takes stock of the place; and sees the young lady. 1
THE GENTLEMAN2 [taking off his hat] I beg your pardon. Can you direct me to Hindhead View—Mrs. Alison’s?
THE YOUNG LADY [glancing up from her book] This is Mrs. Alison’s. [She resumes her work.]
THE GENTLEMAN Indeed! Perhaps—may I ask are you Miss Vivie Warren?
THE YOUNG LADY [sharply, as she turns on her elbow to get a good look at him] Yes.
THE GENTLEMAN [daunted and conciliatory] I’m afraid I appear intrusive. My name is Praed. [VIVIE at once throws her books upon the chair, and gets out of the hammock.] Oh, pray don’t let me disturb you.
VIVIE [striding to the gate and opening it for him] Come in, Mr. Praed. [He comes in.] Glad to see you. [She proffers her hand and takes his with a resolute and hearty grip. She is an attractive specimen of the sensible, able, highly-educated young middle-class Englishwoman. Age 22. Prompt, strong, confident, self-possessed. Plain, business-like dress, but not dowdy. She wears a chatelaine at her belt, with a fountain pen and a paper knife among its pendants.]
PRAED Very kind of you indeed, Miss Warren. [She shuts the gate with a vigorous slam: he passes in to the middle of the garden, exercising his fingers, which are slightly numbed by her greeting.] Has your mother arrived?
VIVIE [quickly, evidently scenting aggression] Is she coming?
PRAED [surprised] Didn’t you expect us?
VIVIE No.
PRAED Now, goodness me, I hope I’ve not mistaken the day. That would be just like me, you know. Your mother arranged that she was to come down from London and that I was to come over from Horsham to be introduced to you.
VIVIE [not at all pleased] Did she? H‘m! My mother has rather a trick of taking me by surprise—to see how I behave myself when she’s away, I suppose. I fancy I shall take my mother very much by surprise one of these days, if she makes arrangements that concern me without consulting me beforehand. She hasn’t come.
PRAED [embarrassed] I’m really very sorry.
VIVIE [throwing off her displeasure] It’s not your fault, Mr. Praed, is it? And I’m very glad you’ve come, believe me. You are the only one of my mother’s friends I have asked her to bring to see me.
PRAED [relieved and delighted] Oh, now this is really very good of you, Miss Warren!
VIVIE Will you come indoors; or would you rather sit out here whilst we talk?
PRAED It will be nicer out here, don’t you think?
VIVIE Then I’ll go and get you a chair. [She goes to the porch for a garden chair.]
PRAED [following her] Oh, pray, pray! Allow me. [He lays hands on the chair.]
VIVIE [letting him take it] Take care of your fingers: they’re rather dodgy things, those chairs. [She goes across to the chair with the books on it; pitches them into the hammock; and brings the chair forward with one swing.]
PRAED [who has just unfolded his chair] Oh, now d oh let me take that hard chair! I like hard chairs.
VIVIE So do I. [She sits down.] Sit down, Mr. Praed. [This invitation is given with genial peremptoriness, his anxiety to please her clearly striking her as a sign of weakness of character on his part.]
PRAED By the way, though, hadn’t we better go to the station to meet your mother?
VIVIE [coolly] Why? She knows the way. [PRAED hesitates, and then sits down in the garden chair, rather disconcerted.] Do you know, you are just like what I expected. I hope you are disposed to be friends with me?
PRAED [again beaming] Thank you, my dear Miss Warren; thank you. Dear me! I’m so glad your mother hasn’t spoilt you! VIVIE How?
PRAED Well, in making you too conventional. You know, my dear Miss Warren, I am a born anarchist. I hate authority. It spoils the relations between parent and child—even between mother and daughter. Now I was always afraid that your mother would strain her authority to make you very conventional. It’s such a relief to find that she hasn’t.
VIVIE Oh! have I been behaving unconventionally?
PRAED Oh, no: oh, dear no. At least not conventionally unconventionally, you understand. [She nods. He goes on, with a cordial outburst.] But it was so charming of you to say that you were disposed to be friends with me! You modern young ladies are splendid—perfectly splendid!
VIVIE [dubiously] Eh? [watching him with dawning disappointment as to the quality of his brains and character.]
PRAED When I was your age, young men and women were afraid of each other: there was no good fellowship—nothing real—only gallantry copied out of novels, and as vulgar and affected as it could be. Maidenly reserve!—gentlemanly chivalry!—always saying no when you meant yes!—simple purgatory for shy and sincere souls!
VIVIE Yes, I imagine there must have been a frightful waste of time—especially women’s time.
PRAED Oh, waste of life, waste of everything. But things are improving. Do you know, I have been in a positive state of excitement about meeting you ever since your magnificent achievements at Cambridge—a thing unheard of in my day. It was perfectly splendid, your tieing with the third wrangler. Just the right place, you know. The first wrangler is always a dreamy, morbid fellow, in whom the thing is pushed to the length of a disease.
VIVIE It doesn’t pay. I wouldn’t do it again for the same money.
PRAED [aghast] The same money!
VIVIE I did it for £50. Perhaps you don’t know how it was. Mrs. Latham, my tutor at Newnham,i told my mother that I could distinguish myself in the mathematical triposj if I went for it in earnest. The papers were full just then of Phillipa Summers beating the senior wrangler—you remember about it; and nothing would please my mother but that I should do the same thing. I said flatly that it was not worth my while to face the grind since I was not going in for teaching; but I offered to try for fourth wrangler or thereabouts for £50. She closed with me at that, after a little grumbling; and I was better than my bargain. But I wouldn’t do it again for that. £200 would have been nearer the mark.
PRAED [much damped] Lord bless me! That’s a very practical way of looking at it.
VIVIE Did you expect to find me an unpractical person?
PRAED No, no. But surely it’s
practical to consider not only the work these honors cost, but also the culture they bring.
VIVIE Culture! My dear Mr. Praed: do you know what the mathematical tripos means? It means grind, grind, grind, for six to eight hours a day at mathematics, and nothing but mathematics. I’m supposed to know something about science; but I know nothing except the mathematics it involves. I can make calculations for engineers, electricians, insurance companies, and so on; but I know next to nothing about engineering or electricity or insurance. I don’t even know arithmetic well. Outside mathematics, lawn-tennis, eating, sleeping, cycling, and walking, I’m a more ignorant barbarian than any woman could possibly be who hadn’t gone in for the tripos.
PRAED [revolted] What a monstrous, wicked, rascally system! I knew it! I felt at once that it meant destroying all that makes womanhood beautiful.
VIVIE I don’t object to it on that score in the least. I shall turn it to very good account, I assure you.
PRAED Pooh! In what way?
VIVIE I shall set up in chambers in the city and work at actuarial calculations and conveyancing. Under cover of that I shall do some law, with one eye on the Stock Exchange all the time. I’ve come down here by myself to read law—not for a holiday, as my mother imagines. I hate holidays.
PRAED You make my blood run cold. Are you to have no romance, no beauty in your life?
VIVIE I don’t care for either, I assure you.
PRAED You can’t mean that.
VIVIE Oh yes I do. I like working and getting paid for it. When I’m tired of working, I like a comfortable chair, a cigar, a little whisky, and a novel with a good detective story in it.
PRAED [in a frenzy of repudiation] I don’t believe it. I am an artist; and I can’t believe it: I refuse to believe it. [Enthusiastically.] Ah, my dear Miss Warren, you haven’t discovered yet, I see, what a wonderful world art can open up to you.
VIVIE Yes, I have. Last May I spent six weeks in London with Honoria Fraser. Mamma thought we were doing a round of sight-seeing together; but I was really at Honoria’s chambers in Chancery Lane every day, working away at actuarial calculations for her, and helping her as well as a greenhorn could. In the evenings we smoked and talked, and never dreamt of going out except for exercise. And I never enjoyed myself more in my life. I cleared all my expenses and got initiated into the business without a fee into the bargain.
PRAED But bless my heart and soul, Miss Warren, do you call that trying art?
VIVIE Wait a bit. That wasn’t the beginning. I went up to town on an invitation from some artistic people in Fitzjohn’s Avenue: one of the girls was a Newnham chum. They took me to the National Gallery, to the Opera, and to a concert where the band played all the evening—Beethoven and Wagner and so on. I wouldn’t go through that experience again for anything you could offer me. I held out for civility’s sake until the third day; and then I said, plump out, that I couldn’t stand any more of it, and went off to Chancery Lane. Now you know the sort of perfectly splendid modern young lady I am. How do you think I shall get on with my mother?
PRAED [startled] Well, I hope—er—
VIVIE It’s not so much what you hope as what you believe, that I want to know.
PRAED Well, frankly, I am afraid your mother will be a little disappointed. Not from any shortcoming on your part—I don’t mean that. But you are so different from her ideal.
VIVIE What is her ideal like?
PRAED Well, you must have observed, Miss Warren, that people who are dissatisfied with their own bringing up generally think that the world would be all right if everybody were to be brought up quite differently. Now your mother’s life has been—er—I suppose you know—
VIVIE I know nothing. [PRAED is appalled. His consternation grows as she continues.] That’s exactly my difficulty. You forget, Mr. Praed, that I hardly know my mother. Since I was a child I have lived in England, at school or college, or with people paid to take charge of me. I have been boarded out all my life; and my mother has lived in Brussels or Vienna and never let me go to her. I only see her when she visits England for a few days. I don’t complain: it’s been very pleasant; for people have been very good to me; and there has always been plenty of money to make things smooth. But don’t imagine I know anything about my mother. I know far less than you do.
PRAED [very ill at ease] In that case—[He stops, quite at a loss. Then, with a forced attempt at gaiety.] But what nonsense we are talking! Of course you and your mother will get on capitally. [He rises, and looks abroad at the view.] What a charming little place you have here!
VIVIE [unmoved] If you think you are doing anything but confirming my worst suspicions by changing the subject like that, you must take me for a much greater fool than I hope I am.
PRAED Your worst suspicions! Oh, pray don’t say that. Now don’t.
VIVIE Why won’t my mother’s life bear being talked about?
PRAED Pray think, Miss Vivie. It is natural that I should have a certain delicacy in talking to my old friend’s daughter about her behind her back. You will have plenty of opportunity of talking to her about it when she comes. [Anxiously.] I wonder what is keeping her.
VIVIE No: she won’t talk about it either. [Rising.] However, I won’t press you. Only mind this, Mr. Praed. I strongly suspect there will be a battle royal when my mother hears of my Chancery Lane project.
PRAED [ruefully] I’m afraid there will.
VIVIE I shall win the battle, because I want nothing but my fare to London to start there to-morrow earning my own living by devilling for Honoria. Besides, I have no mysteries to keep up; and it seems she has. I shall use that advantage over her if necessary. 3
PRAED [greatly shocked] Oh, no. No, pray. You’d not do such a thing.
VIVIE Then tell me why not.
PRAED I really cannot. I appeal to your good feeling. [She smiles at his sentimentality.] Besides, you may be too bold. Your mother is not to be trifled with when she’s angry.
VIVIE You can’t frighten me, Mr. Praed. In that month at Chancery Lane I had opportunities of taking the measure of one or two women, very like my mother who came to consult Honoria. You may back me to win. But if I hit harder in my ignorance than I need, remember that it is you who refuse to enlighten me. Now let us drop the subject. [She takes her chair and replaces it near the hammock with the same vigorous swing as before.]
PRAED [taking a desperate resolution] One word, Miss Warren. I had better tell you. It’s very difficult; but—[MRS. WARREN and SIR GEORGE CROFTS arrive at the gate. MRS. WARREN is a woman between 40 and 50, good-looking, showily dressed in a brilliant hat and a gay blouse fitting tightly over her bust and flanked by fashionable sleeves. Rather spoiled and domineering, but, on the whole, a genial and fairly presentable old blackguard of a woman.
CROFTS is a tall, powerfully-built man of about 50, fashionably dressed in the style of a young man. Nasal voice, reedier than might be expected from his strong frame. Clean-shaven, bull-dog jaws, large flat ears, and thick neck, gentlemanly combination of the most brutal types of city man, sporting man, and man about town.]
VIVIE Here they are. [Coming to them as they enter the garden.] How do, mater. Mr. Praed’s been here this half hour, waiting for you.
MRS. WARREN Well, if you’ve been waiting, Praddy, it’s your own fault: I thought you’d have had the gumption to know I was coming by the 3:10 train. Vivie, put your hat on, dear: you’ll get sunburnt. Oh, forgot to introduce you. Sir George Crofts, my little Vivie. [CROFTS advances to VIVIE with his most courtly manner. She nods, but makes no motion to shake hands.]
CROFTS May I shake hands with a young lady whom I have known by reputation very long as the daughter of one of my oldest friends?
VIVIE [who has been looking him up and down sharply] If you like. [She takes his tenderly proffered hand and gives it a squeeze that makes him open his eyes; then turns away and says to her mother] Will you come in, or shall I get a couple more chairs? [She goes into the porch for the chairs.]
&nbs
p; MRS.WARREN Well, George, what do you think of her?
CROFTS [ruefully] She has a powerful fist. Did you shake hands with her, Praed?
PRAED Yes: it will pass off presently.
CROFTS I hope so. [VIVIE reappears with two more chairs. He hurries to her assistance.] Allow me.
MRS. WARREN [patronizingly] Let Sir George help you with the chairs, dear.
VIVIE [almost pitching two into his arms] Here you are. [She dusts her hands and turns to MRS. WARREN.] You’d like some tea, wouldn’t you?
MRS. WARREN [sitting in PRAED’s chair and fanning herself] I’m dying for a drop to drink.
VIVIE I’ll see about it. [She goes into the cottage. SIR GEORGE has by this time managed to unfold a chair and plant it beside MRS. WARREN, on her left. He throws the other on the grass and sits down, looking dejected and rather foolish, with the handle of his stick in his mouth. PRAED, still very uneasy, fidgets about the garden on their right.]
MRS.WARREN [to PRAED, looking at CROFTS] Just look at him, Praddy: he looks cheerful, don’t he? He’s been worrying my life out these three years to have that little girl of mine shewn to him; and now that I’ve done it, he’s quite out of countenance. [Briskly.] Come! sit up, George; and take your stick out of your mouth. [CROFTS sulkily obeys.]
PRAED I think, you know—if you don’t mind my saying so—that we had better get out of the habit of thinking of her as a little girl. You see she has really distinguished herself; and I’m not sure, from what I have seen of her, that she is not older than any of us.
Man and Superman and Three Other Plays Page 7
