Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  REID.

  What is it — Anne, Anne! it is you? Tell me what has happened. (Pause) I fainted, didn’t I? (He closes his eyes.)

  LADY ANNE.

  He’s fainted again.

  REID.

  No, I haven’t But my head is swimming. I was saying something to you. What did I say? Did I tell you that —

  LADY ANNE.

  You said nothing.

  REID.

  Ah! that perfume, how it brings back the past! I was writing all last night, and I ate nothing — I had no time. I have overdone it; that’s all.

  LADY ANNE.

  You mustn’t talk. Rest —

  REID.

  I’m better now. (Makes an effort to rise.)

  LADY ANNE.

  Let me help you. (She helps him to rise.)

  REID (leaning against the table).

  Fainting like a girl. I’m ashamed of myself. I shall be all right when I get into the air. Good-bye, Lady Anne. You’ll excuse me.

  LADY ANNE.

  But you’re not going yet. Wait until you’re better.

  REID.

  May I have a glass of water?

  LADY ANNE.

  I’ll ring for one. (Rings. — The FOOTMAN enters. To FOOTMAN.) Bring a glass of water at once — quickly. (Exit FOOTMAN.) Let me order you some lunch; you’re starving!

  REID.

  A glass of water will be sufficient. It is only a little faintness. I shall be all right presently. (Enter FOOTMAN with water. REID drinks. Exit FOOTMAN. REID prepares to go.)

  LADY ANNE.

  You must take more care of yourself; your health will break down if you don’t I suppose we’ve said everything. But you’ll find time to come and see me again. I’m not the superficial woman you take me for. I want to hear your ideas. When will you come and see me?

  REID.

  There would be no reason for my coming here again. You forget how different are our positions. Besides, the turn that events have taken will leave little spare time on my hands. I must now consider the best way of getting the men back to work.

  LADY ANNE.

  But you must not think that it was for that I invited you here.

  REID.

  Surely.

  LADY ANNE.

  You think there was no other reason?

  REID.

  Perhaps you felt some sort of interest in seeing me again.

  LADY ANNE.

  Indeed I did. I asked you here because I want you to forgive me. (Giving hint her hands.)

  REID.

  I wish we had met in other circumstances.

  LADY ANNE.

  Circumstances do not control those who care for each other.

  REID.

  Care for each other!

  LADY ANNE.

  When you fainted just now I learnt from your own lips that you loved me. You do love me; you cannot deny it.

  REID.

  Alas! I’ve never loved any one but you. It is too late now.

  LADY ANNE.

  It is never too late. I, too, have a confession to make. I have not forgotten you. I never loved any one but you.

  REID.

  Ah, I heard you say the same words long ago, and I learnt what your love was worth.

  LADY ANNE, I am not situated as I was then.

  REID.

  Nor was I situated then as I am now.

  LADY ANNE.

  Do you doubt my love? Why should I tell you so if it were not true?

  REID.

  Why indeed!

  LADY ANNE.

  It is your duty to tell the men to return to work. Only revenge could prevent you from doing so, and you do not want revenge, do you?

  REID.

  Anne, it is too late; my troth is pledged to another.

  LADY ANNE.

  To whom? You do not love that thread-paper girl with theories instead of blood in her veins?

  REID.

  Not as I once loved you.

  LADY ANNE.

  Nor even as you love me now. (She draws herself against hint like a cat.) Kiss me! (He kisses her and breaks away from her. He stands looking into space; she sits downy right. Pause)

  REID.

  You want me to betray her as once you betrayed me. To cause her the same suffering. This can only end in shame and ruin. (With sudden determination) I will go at once. (Exit)

  LADY ANNE.

  Gone, gone! I shall never see him again. She’ll never let him come here again. (Throws herself on the sofa) Ah, I could have loved that man. (Getting up) I must, I will... I shall see him again. I will write to him. (Goes to writing-table. Two minutes should elapse between REID’S exit and his entrance. The door opens; REID enters, a letter in his hand.) Ah, so you’ve come back. What has brought you back? Something has happened Bad news is written in your face.

  REID.

  The worst of news. Irrevocable disaster!

  LADY ANNE.

  What do you mean? Tell me.

  REID.

  As I was leaving, this letter was put into my hand. (Reading.) “Sir, — Knowing the situation to be critical in Arlingford, I send you a cheque for £2000. It is necessary that labour should win this battle. Arlingford is the key to the situation in the North. — A friend of labour.” A friend of labour? Ah, a cruel friend! (Clenching letter.) Ah! it is you who have destroyed us.

  LADY ANNE.

  But you’ll tell the miners that the books prove that their demands are impossible, that to continue the strike must end in the ruin of my property — of their property. You will appeal to their reason.

  REID.

  With this money in my hand it were idle to advise them to return to work.

  LADY ANNE.

  Then I’m ruined, utterly ruined! (They sit down, REID in a chair next the table, LADY ANNE in a chair down the stage on the right.) When the money is gone, when they would return to work, the property which cost the labour of three generations to create will have disappeared; the mine will be a swamp.

  REID.

  Yes, a vast property lost to a little drunkenness! What a derision! ( Getting up, and going to LADY ANNE.) But cannot you get money from your relations sufficient to keep the mine in working order?

  LADY ANNE.

  My relations cannot help me; no one can help me now, except Baron Steinbach.

  REID.

  Baron Steinbach! (LADY ANNE looks at him. Recollecting himself.) Baron Steinbach, our bitterest foe; he would crush us with his millions! He would resist until he forced the poor folk to accept his terms; God knows what they’d be! The alternative is a terrible one, but I do not understand why you have not already accepted his help.

  LADY ANNE.

  Let us say because I do not wish to crush these poor people utterly; give me credit for some good intention.

  REID (taking her hands).

  Is this really true, Anne?

  LADY ANNE.

  Yes, it is quite true. There is one way out of this terrible situation. No one knows of the arrival of that cheque; say nothing about it, and advise the men to return to work.

  REID.

  Detain this cheque, and advise the men to return to work! You do not realise what you are asking!

  LADY ANNE.

  Yes, I do. Detain that cheque a few days — a few hours may be sufficient Tell them to go back to work; save them, and save me!

  REID.

  “To do a great right to do a little wrong.” But is my wrong little, however noble my purpose. One cannot foresee the end of such an act Oh, God! my responsibility is greater than I can bear!

  LADY ANNE.

  Save them from Steinbach! Save me!

  REID.

  I’ll save you both! (To himself?) And will bear the punishment even if it falls upon me both sides.

  LADY ANNE.

  You do this for me, for me who did you such wrong? How can I thank you, how can I recompense you? Say that you forgive me the past!

  REID.

  Let me not think
that it is for you I do this.

  LADY ANNE.

  Why should it not be for me?

  REID.

  Were it so, it would be a shameful act.

  LADY ANNE.

  Shameful to save the woman you once loved from ruin.

  REID.

  Ah, if it should become known that I once loved you, no other explanation except love of you will be believed.

  LADY ANNE.

  Then you hesitate — you’re afraid?

  REID.

  No, I am not afraid. I’ll do this. But we must not meet again. (He gets up to go. LADY ANNE stands between him and the door.)

  LADY ANNE.

  We must not meet again.

  CURTAIN.

  ACT III.

  SCENE. — THE same as before. Lady Anne’s drawing-room. As the curtain rises, LADY ANNE is seating herself on the sofa. REID is standing by her.

  LADY ANNE.

  At last we’re alone. The worst of servants is that one can’t speak before them, unless one speaks in French. You don’t, do you? Come and sit down.

  (Enter FOOTMAN with coffee and liqueurs.

  REID takes chair.)

  Oh, here’s the coffee. (To FOOTMAN.) YOU can put it on that table. I will serve it. (FOOTMAN draws over the wicker table, and places coffee upon it Exit FOOTMAN. LADY ANNE puts her hands on REID’S shoulders and looks at him.) I cannot imagine how you could have ever thought of marrying a woman who wasn’t a lady.

  REID.

  Why introduce a subject that you know must be painful to me? Let us not speak of Ellen.

  LADY ANNE.

  I’m jealous of her, of the influence she has had over you. You never could have lived among common people. Admit that you’re glad to find yourself in a drawing-room -again.

  REID.

  Among the refinements of life! I never regretted these things, I only regretted you. (Enter FOOTMAN; offers liqueurs.) None, thank you.

  LADY ANNE.

  What, no liqueur; not even a glass of Chartreuse? What an ascetic you’ve become! (Exit FOOTMAN.) At last we’re alone. How nice it is to have you here! Tell me how you managed to get away.

  REID.

  It was difficult I had to avoid exciting any suspicion.

  LADY ANNE.

  You’re sure you weren’t followed?

  REID.

  Quite.

  LADY ANNE.

  Tell me how you managed to deceive them. I love the excitement, the intrigue; it is half the charm.

  REID.

  I told them I was going for a long walk in the country. I walked for a couple of miles, until I made sure I wasn’t followed, and then I took a short cut across the fields, and entered the town by the other side. That is all. And you, how did you manage to get rid of Baron Steinbach?

  LADY ANNE.

  Oh, that’s rather a good story. I wrote him a nice letter, inviting him to tea. I slipped a tea-gown over my dress, and with the help of some violet powder got myself up to look like an invalid. He found me lying on the sofa, a bottle of smelling salts in my hand, hardly able to speak. I gave him a cup of tea, and told him I was going to spend the evening in my room. Wasn’t that ingenious?

  REID.

  It seems so strange that you should take this trouble for me, and after all these years.

  LADY ANNE.

  Why is it strange? I’ll not have you look at your muddy boots. I like your loose necktie and your rough clothes; you’re far nicer like that A west-end tailor could only make you look like any other young man. No, I don’t think a west-end tailor could make you look like that.

  REID.

  It is the novelty of my roughness that attracts, and when the spice of the novelty is worn off you’ll grow tired of me, as you did before.

  LADY ANNE.

  Now don’t begin to analyse, or you’ll spoil everything.

  REID.

  I analyse nothing. I only know that I am yours, that you can do what you will with me. I am no longer John Reid — I am your lover.

  LADY ANNE.

  And you don’t desire any longer to address miners at the street corner, to urge them to destroy everything beautiful in the world? You’re content to sit here by me, to be my lover?

  REID.

  I forget all but you. I look on your face, I watch the colour of your eyes, I hold you in my arms.

  LADY ANNE.

  And when you go away from here do you forget me?

  REID.

  Then I’m really yours... words, looks, everything is remembered. I lose myself in memories of you. There never was a more complete abandonment of self LADY ANNE.

  ‘ I don’t think your love is a selfish love. I must prove worthy of it REID.

  Anne, if you’d only been true to me! Ah, how I loved you! Do you remember those beautiful summer evenings by the river-side? How young we were then! Life had not had its way with us. Do you remember the oak wood and the tree on which I carved your name?

  LADY ANNE.

  I remember everything, John. When I read your poems all that past came back to me; the book used to fall on my knees, and I wondered if we were to meet, if you’d care for me.

  REID.

  But when you heard that I headed the strike on your mine, you hated me.

  LADY ANNE.

  No; I only thought of seeing you again. But you hated me when you came into this room at the head of the deputation. I was madly anxious to find some excuse to speak with you alone. When I caught your eye and you came down to speak to me —

  REID.

  You knew that you would succeed in winning me back.

  LADY ANNE.

  I hoped that we might be friends. I felt that I must speak to you of the old days, that was all! And you, when did you begin to love me?

  REID.

  I hardly know. It was like the giddiness that takes a man on a cliffs edge. I knew that if I looked I should throw myself into the void. And I looked —

  LADY ANNE (freeing herself from his embrace).

  How despondent and philosophical you are! You take life very sadly. (Showing her fan.) Look at these lovers, how gay and delightful they are! What do you think of my fan? This is an heirloom, a real old Pompadour fan, one of Watteau’s designs. Ah! that is a century I should have liked to live in.

  REID.

  Anne, listen. I’ve come to tell you —— —

  LADY ANNE.

  You’ve come to tell me that you love me. I won’t hear anything else. Look at my fan, see the ladies and gallants how they’re grouped under the colonnade. That little woman in the brown dress, isn’t she sweet? And the little gallant at her feet, he’s nice too. He doesn’t believe much in what he’s saying; it’s just part of the entertainment.

  REID.

  But, Anne, do you hate deep feeling? Must all love be light?

  LADY ANNE.

  I really don’t know. You find fault with all my conversation. You argue everything.

  REID.

  Forgive me, Anne.... In other circumstances you would find me different.

  LADY ANNE (extending her hand to him).

  Forgive me. Go and get your poems, they are on that table; read to me.

  (He fetches book and reads.)

  REID.

  One night Temptation came to me

  And woke me with her passing hair,

  And led me captive by the sea,

  Adown the cliffs to the sea’s lair.

  The rank grass rustled sharply, stirred

  By puffing winds that gasped and died,

  And through the sundered rocks was heard

  The hollow bellow of the tide.

  She sate me on a narrow ledge,

  And watched me till I could not bear

  Her eyes green spell. Upon the edge

  Of life she held me; in despair

  I took my soul from out my heart

  And let it go for good or ill —

  For why restrain what would depart;

  This soul was w
eary of my will.

  Do you know the poem of which that is the two first stanzas?

  LADY ANNE.

  Yes; it is called “The Ballad of a Lost Soul.” The soul wanders over the skies unable to choose among the many stars, until at last Venus rises, and then the soul is caught within the attraction of Venus.

  REID.

  It is strange that I should have opened this book at that poem. You do not perceive the allegory.

  LADY ANNE.

  I suppose you mean that I tempted you from honour and duty? Very well, go to Ellen Sands. I’m not accustomed to these hesitations; nor do I think much of those who never know their own minds, or even on what side they’re fighting.

  REID (getting up).

  Anne, I beg of you to be patient with me. It is not my fault if, on entering this room, I cannot efface from my mind what I have seen during the day.

  LADY ANNE.

  To-morrow the men will surrender; they cannot hold out much longer.

  REID.

  Perhaps; but this morning their sullen determined faces frightened me. I made every appeal, and failed to move them.

  LADY ANNE.

  How do you account for this obstinacy? Last week you had only to speak for them to obey.

  REID.

  Now Ellen Sands and others are against me. Besides, that article in the Durham Mercury telling of our early love-story has done much to undermine my influence. This morning there was talk of promised assistance and unaccountable delay in the transmission of money.

  LADY ANNE.

  Ah! that newspaper article. The letters I have received. It seems that at Torrington Park you’re looked upon as my acknowledged lover. I, too, have made sacrifices, but I’m not so eloquent about them as you.

  REID.

  Anne, my position is a terrible one.

  LADY ANNE.

  Are you afraid?

  REID.

  You mean personal fear? I’m not afraid. But my guilt burns in my heart Let me give them their money.

  LADY ANNE.

  To achieve my ruin your friend would see the men die by inches.

  REID.

  Anne, you do not know the abject suffering of the town, and all within a few yards of you. Let me show you. (He leads her to window, left) Look into the street. Those men are starving. That man, how miserable he seems — his slouching, hungry gait! And those children who follow their mother. She has no bread to give them. A little lath and plaster between this elegant boudoir and miserable garrets. Anne, have mercy!