VIVIE [indulgently] That’s all you have to say on the subject, is it, mother?
MRS. WARREN [puzzled, then angry] Don’t you keep on asking me questions like that. [Violently.] Hold your tongue. [VIVIE works on, losing no time, and saying nothing.] You and your way of life, indeed! What next? [She looks at VIVIE again. No reply.] Your way of life will be what I please, so it will. [Another pause.] I’ve been noticing these airs in you ever since you got that tripos or whatever you call it. If you think I’m going to put up with them you’re mistaken; and the sooner you find it out, the better. [Muttering. ] All I have to say on the subject, indeed! [Again raising her voice angrily.] Do you know who you’re speaking to, Miss?
VIVIE [looking across at her without raising her head from her book] No. Who are you? What are you?
MRS. WARREN [rising breathless] You young imp!
VIVIE Everybody knows my reputation, my social standing, and the profession I intend to pursue. I know nothing about you. What is that way of life which you invite me to share with you and Sir George Crofts, pray?
MRS. WARREN Take care. I shall do something I’ll be sorry for after, and you, too.
VIVIE [putting aside her books with cool decision] Well, let us drop the subject until you are better able to face it. [Looking critically at her mother.] You want some good walks and a little lawn tennis to set you up. You are shockingly out of condition: you were not able to manage twenty yards uphill to-day without stopping to pant; and your wrists are mere rolls of fat. Look at mine. [She holds out her wrists.]
MRS. WARREN [after looking at her helplessly, begins to whimper] Vivie—
VIVIE [springing up sharply] Now pray don’t begin to cry. Anything but that. I really cannot stand whimpering. I will go out of the room if you do.
MRS. WARREN [piteously] Oh, my darling, how can you be so hard on me? Have I no rights over you as your mother?
VIVIE Are you my mother?
MRS. WARREN [appalled] Am I your mother! Oh, Vivie!
VIVIE Then where are our relatives—my father—our family friends? You claim the rights of a mother: the right to call me fool and child; to speak to me as no woman in authority over me at college dare speak to me; to dictate my way of life; and to force on me the acquaintance of a brute whom anyone can see to be the most vicious sort of London man about town. Before I give myself the trouble to resist such claims, I may as well find out whether they have any real existence.
MRS. WARREN [distracted, throwing herself on her knees] Oh, no, no. Stop, stop. I a m your mother: I swear it. Oh, you can’t mean to turn on me—my own child: it’s not natural. You believe me, don’t you? Say you believe me.
VIVIE Who was my father?
MRS. WARREN You don’t know what you’re asking. I can’t tell you.
VIVIE [determinedly] Oh, yes, you can, if you like. I have a right to know; and you know very well that I have that right. You can refuse to tell me, if you please; but if you do, you will see the last of me to-morrow morning.
MRS. WARREN Oh, it’s too horrible to hear you talk like that. You wouldn‘t—you couldn’t t leave me.
VIVIE [ruthlessly] Yes, without a moment’s hesitation, if you trifle with me about this. [Shivering with disgust.] How can I feel sure that I may not have the contaminated blood of that brutal waster in my veins?
MRS. WARREN No, no. On my oath it’s not he, nor any of the rest that you have ever met. I’m certain of that, at least. [VIVIE’s eyes fasten sternly on her mother as the significance of this flashes on her.]
VIVIE [slowly] You are certain of that, at least. Ah! You mean that that is all you are certain of. [Thoughifully.] I see. [MRS. WARREN buries her face in her hands.] Don’t do that, mother: you know you don’t feel it a bit. [MRS. WARREN takes down her hands and looks up deplorably at VIVIE, who takes out her watch and says] Well, that is enough for to-night. At what hour would you like breakfast? Is half-past eight too early for you?
MRS. WARREN [wildly] My God, what sort of woman are you?
VIVIE [coolly] The sort the world is mostly made of, I should hope. Otherwise I don’t understand how it gets its business done. Come [taking her mother by the wrist, and pulling her up pretty resolutely ]: pull yourself together. That’s right.
MRS. WARREN [querulously] You’re very rough with me, Vivie.
VIVIE Nonsense. What about bed? It’s past ten.
MRS. WARREN [passionately] What’s the use of my going to bed? Do you think I could sleep?
VIVIE Why not? I shall.
MRS. WARREN You! you’ve no heart. [She suddenly breaks out vehemently in her natural tongue—the dialect of a woman of the people—with all her affectations of maternal authority and conventional manners gone, and an overwhelming inspiration of true conviction and scorn in her.] Oh, I won’t bear it: I won’t put up with the injustice of it. What right have you to set yourself up above me like this? You boast of what you are to me—to m e, who gave you the chance of being what you are. What chance had I? Shame on you for a bad daughter and a stuck-up prude!
VIVIE [cool and determined, but no longer confident; for her replies, which have sounded convincingly sensible and strong to her so far, now begin to ring rather woodenly and even priggishly against the new tone of her mother] Don’t think for a moment I set myself above you in any way. You attacked me with the conventional authority of a mother: I defended myself with the conventional superiority of a respectable woman. Frankly, I am not going to stand any of your nonsense; and when you drop it I shall not expect you to stand any of mine. I shall always respect your right to your own opinions and your own way of life.
MRS. WARREN My own opinions and my own way of life! Listen to her talking! Do you think I was brought up like you—able to pick and choose my own way of life? Do you think I did what I did because I liked it, or thought it right, or wouldn’t rather have gone to college and been a lady if I’d had the chance?
VIVIE Everybody has some choice, mother. The poorest girl alive may not be able to choose between being Queen of England or Principal of Newnham; but she can choose between ragpicking and flowerselling, according to her taste. People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can’t find them, make them.4
MRS. WARREN Oh, it’s easy to talk, very easy, isn’t it? Here!—would you like to know what m y circumstances were?
VIVIE Yes: you had better tell me. Won’t you sit down?
MRS. WARREN Oh, I ‘ ll sit down: don’t you be afraid. [She plants her chair farther forward with brazen energy, and sits down. VIVIE is impressed in spite of herself.] D’you known what your gran’ mother was?
VIVIE No.
MRS. WARREN No, you don’t. I do. She called herself a widow and had a fried-fish shop down by the Mint, and kept herself and four daughters out of it. Two of us were sisters: that was me and Liz; and we were both good-looking and well made. I suppose our father was a well-fed man: mother pretended he was a gentleman; but I don’t know. The other two were only half sisters—undersized, ugly, starved looking, hard working, honest poor creatures: Liz and I would have half-murdered them if mother hadn’t half-murdered u s to keep our hands off them. They were the respectable ones. Well, what did they get by their respectability? I’ll tell you. One of them worked in a whitelead factory twelve hours a day for nine shillings a week until she died of lead poisoning. She only expected to get her hands a little paralyzed; but she died. The other was always held up to us as a model because she married a Government laborer in the Deptford victualling yard, and kept his room and the three children neat and tidy on eighteen shillings a week—until he took to drink. That was worth being respectable for, wasn’t it?
VIVIE [now thoughtfully attentive] Did you and your sister think so?
MRS. WARREN Liz didn‘t, I can tell you: she had more spirit. We both went to a church school—that was part of the ladylik
e airs we gave ourselves to be superior to the children that knew nothing and went nowhere—and we stayed there until Liz went out one night and never came back. I know the schoolmistress thought I’d soon follow her example; for the clergyman was always warning me that Lizzie’d end by jumping off Waterloo Bridge.o Poor fool: that was all he knew about it! But I was more afraid of the whitelead factory than I was of the river; and so would you have been in my place. That clergyman got me a situation as scullery maid in a temperance restaurant where they sent out for anything you liked. Then I was waitress; and then I went to the bar at Waterloo station—fourteen hours a day serving drinks and washing glasses for four shillings a week and my board. That was considered a great promotion for me. Well, one cold, wretched night, when I was so tired I could hardly keep myself awake, who should come up for a half of Scotch but Lizzie, in a long fur cloak, elegant and comfortable, with a lot of sovereigns in her purse.
VIVIE [grimly] My aunt Lizzie!
MRS. WARREN Yes: and a very good aunt to have, too. She’s living down at Winchester now, close to the cathedral, one of the most respectable ladies there—chaperones girls at the county ball, if you please. No river for Liz, thank you! You remind me of Liz a little: she was a first-rate business woman—saved money from the beginning—never let herself look too like what she was—never lost her head or threw away a chance. When she saw I’d grown up good-looking she said to me across the bar: “What are you doing there, you little fool? wearing out your health and your appearance for other people’s profit!” Liz was saving money then to take a house for herself in Brussels: and she thought we two could save faster than one. So she lent me some money and gave me a start; and I saved steadily and first paid her back, and then went into business with her as her partner. Why shouldn’t I have done it? The house in Brussels was real high class—a much better place for a woman to be in than the factory where Anne Jane got poisoned. None of our girls were ever treated as I was treated in the scullery of that temperance place, or at the Waterloo bar, or at home. Would you have had me stay in them and become a worn out old drudge before I was forty?
VIVIE [intensely interested by this time] No; but why did you choose that business? Saving money and good management will succeed in any business.
MRS. WARREN Yes, saving money. But where can a woman get the money to save in any other business? Could you save out of four shillings a week and keep yourself dressed as well? Not you. Of course, if you’re a plain woman and can’t earn anything more; or if you have a turn for music, or the stage, or newspaper-writing: that’s different. But neither Liz nor I had any turn for such things: all we had was our appearance and our turn for pleasing men. Do you think we were such fools as to let other people trade in our good looks by employing us as shopgirls, or barmaids, or waitresses, when we could trade in them ourselves and get all the profits instead of starvation wages? Not likely.5
VIVIE You were certainly quite justified—from the business point of view.
MRS. WARREN Yes; or any other point of view. What is any respectable girl brought up to do but to catch some rich man’s fancy and get the benefit of his money by marrying him?—as if a marriage ceremony could make any difference in the right or wrong of the thing! Oh, the hypocrisy of the world makes me sick! Liz and I had to work and save and calculate just like other people; elseways we should be as poor as any good-for-nothing, drunken waster of a woman that thinks her luck will last for ever. [With great energy.] I despise such people: they’ve no character ; and if there’s a thing I hate in a woman, it’s want of character.
VIVIE Come, now, mother: frankly! Isn’t it part of what you call character in a woman that she should greatly dislike such a way of making money?
MRS. WARREN Why, of course. Everybody dislikes having to work and make money; but they have to do it all the same. I’m sure I’ve often pitied a poor girl, tired out and in low spirits, having to try to please some man that she doesn’t care two straws for—some half-drunken fool that thinks he’s making himself agreeable when he’s teasing and worrying and disgusting a woman so that hardly any money could pay her for putting up with it. But she has to bear with disagreeables and take the rough with the smooth, just like a nurse in a hospital or anyone else. It’s not work that any woman would do for pleasure, goodness knows; though to hear the pious people talk you would suppose it was a bed of roses.
VIVIE Still you consider it worth while. It pays.
MRS. WARREN Of course it’s worth while to a poor girl, if she can resist temptation and is good-looking and well conducted and sensible. It’s far better than any other employment open to her. I always thought that oughtn’t to be. It can’t be right, Vivie, that there shouldn’t be better opportunities for women. I stick to that: it’s wrong. But it’s so, right or wrong; and a girl must make the best of it. But, of course, it’s not worth while for a lady. If you took to it you’d be a fool; but I should have been a fool if I’d taken to anything else.
VIVIE [more and more deeply moved] Mother: suppose we were both as poor as you were in those wretched old days, are you quite sure that you wouldn’t advise me to try the Waterloo bar, or marry a labourer, or even go into the factory?
MRS. WARREN [indignantly] Of course not. What sort of mother do you take me for! How could you keep your self-respect in such starvation and slavery? And what’s a woman worth? what’s life worth? without self-respect! Why am I independent and able to give my daughter a first-rate education, when other women that had just as good opportunities are in the gutter? Because I always knew how to respect myself and control myself. Why is Liz looked up to in a cathedral town? The same reason. Where would we be now if we’d minded the clergyman’s foolishness? Scrubbing floors for one and sixpence a day and nothing to look forward to but the workhouse infirmary. Don’t you be led astray by people who don’t know the world, my girl. The only way for a woman to provide for herself decently is for her to be good to some man that can afford to be good to her. If she’s in his own station of life, let her make him marry her; but if she’s far beneath him she can’t expect it—why should she? It wouldn’t be for her own happiness. Ask any lady in London society that has daughters; and she’ll tell you the same, except that I tell you straight and she’ll tell you crooked. That’s all the difference.6
VIVIE [fascinated, gazing at her] My dear mother: you are a wonderful woman—you are stronger than all England. And are you really and truly not one wee bit doubtful—or—or—ashamed?
MRS. WARREN Well, of course, dearie, it’s only good manners to be ashamed of it; it’s expected from a woman. Women have to pretend to feel a great deal that they don’t feel. Liz used to be angry with me for plumping out the truth about it. She used to say that when every woman could learn enough from what was going on in the world before her eyes, there was no need to talk about it to her. But then Liz was such a perfect lady! She had the true instinct of it; while I was always a bit of a vulgarian. I used to be so pleased when you sent me your photographs to see that you were growing up like Liz: you’ve just her ladylike, determined way. But I can’t stand saying one thing when everyone knows I mean another. What’s the use in such hypocrisy? If people arrange the world that way for women, there’s no good pretending that it’s arranged the other way. I never was a bit ashamed really. I consider that I had a right to be proud that we managed everything so respectably, and never had a word against us, and that the girls were so well taken care of. Some of them did very well: one of them married an ambassador. But of course now I daren’t talk about such things: whatever would they think of us! [She yawns.] Oh, dear! I do believe I’m getting sleepy after all. [She stretches herself lazily, thoroughly relieved by her explosion, and placidly ready for her night’s rest.]
VIVIE I believe it is I who will not be able to sleep now. [She goes to the dresser and lights the candle. Then she extinguishes the lamp, darkening the room a good deal.] Better let in some fresh air before locking up. [She opens the cottage door, and finds that it is bro
ad moonlight. ] What a beautiful night! Look! [She draws aside the curtains of the window. The landscape is seen bathed in the radiance of the harvest moon rising over Blackdown. ]
MRS. WARREN [with a perfunctory glance at the scene] Yes, dear: but take care you don’t catch your death of cold from the night air.
VIVIE [contemptuously] Nonsense.
MRS. WARREN [querulously] Oh, yes: everything I say is nonsense, according to you.
VIVIE [turning to her quickly] No: really that is not so, mother. You have got completely the better of me to-night, though I intended it to be the other way. Let us be good friends now.
MRS. WARREN [shaking her head a little ruefully] So it has been the other way. But I suppose I must give in to it. I always got the worst of it from Liz; and now I suppose it’ll be the same with you.
VIVIE Well, never mind. Come; good-night, dear old mother. [She takes her mother in her arms.]
MRS. WARREN [fondly] I brought you up well, didn’t I, dearie?
VIVIE You did.
MRS. WARREN And you’ll be good to your poor old mother for it, won’t you?
VIVIE I will, dear. [Kissing her.] Good-night.
MRS. WARREN [with unction] Blessings on my own dearie darling—a mother’s blessing! [She embraces her daughter protectingly, instinctively looking upward as if to call down a blessing.]
ACT III
In the Rectory garden next morning, with the sun shining and the birds in full song. The garden wall has a five-barred wooden gate, wide enough to admit a carriage, in the middle. Beside the gate hangs a bell on a coiled spring, communicating with a pull outside. The carriage drive comes down the middle of the garden and then swerves to its left, where it ends in a little gravelled circus opposite the rectory porch. Beyond the gate is seen the dusty high road, parallel with the wall, bounded on the farther side by a strip of turf and an unfenced pine wood. On the lawn, between the house and the drive, is a clipped yew tree, with a garden bench in its shade. On the opposite side the garden is shut in by a box hedge; and there is a sundial on the turf, with an iron chair near it. A little path leads off through the box hedge, behind the sundial.
Man and Superman and Three Other Plays Page 10
