by George Moore
STEINBACH.
The moon is up. (Throwing open the window.) The market-place is as bright as the day. All the town seems to be there. I think they have let him get on the platform; but it is difficult to distinguish detail.... Have you a pair of opera-glasses?
LADY ANNE (snatching a pair front the table). Yes, there’s one. Is he on the platform?
STEINBACH.
Yes, I think so.
LADY ANNE.
Do they listen?
STEINBACH (altering the glasses).
The light is deceitful, and these glasses are not very suited to my sight LADY ANNE (snatching the glasses from him).
Then give them to me.
STEINBACH (coming down stage)
Can you see?
LADY ANNE.
Yes, perfectly.
(STEINBACH sits in arm-chair.)
STEINBACH.
Your friend doesn’t seem to be wanting in courage. It requires no small pluck to face a mob like that... and with such a tale. How can he hope? Imagination, courage, but no brains.... Do they listen?
LADY ANNE.
I do not know... tell me, will they kill him? Yes, they are listening to him. ( Turning from the window.)
STEINBACH.
I’m glad of it I’ve no reason to wish him well, but such a death!
LADY ANNE (turning to the window).
But now there is a movement amongst the crowd; it seems to threaten him.
STEINBACH.
Then he’s doomed. The first blow’s struck, and nothing can save him.
LADY ANNE.
They crowd round the platform! Can we do nothing to save him?
STEINBACH.
I see that you’re still in love with him.
LADY ANNE.
You needn’t be in love with a man because you don’t wish to see him torn to pieces under your very eyes. They have not struck him yet. But why does he remain? Ah, he’s fighting now. But he overpowers the brute, and has thrown him from his platform.
STEINBACH.
There’s plenty more behind that ruffian. Once they’re blooded they’ll have at him and tear him like hounds a hare.
LADY ANNE.
He’s retreated; they’ve driven him into a corner.
(STEINBACH gets up and takes LADY ANNE from the window.)
STEINBACH.
Anne, this is no sight for you; come away. LADY ANNE.
See if they’ve killed him. Here, take the glasses.
STEINBACH.
You saw them drive him into a corner of the square, whence there is no egress. It is vain to think further about him.
LADY ANNE.
I do not speak so cruelly, and he went there to betray me.
STEINBACH.
I did not mean to be cruel. What a death, what a reward for his labours! He gave up everything for them.
LADY ANNE.
Yes, everything. This is shocking. Oh, that I ever came here!
STEINBACH.
You’re trembling.... This has unnerved you. We must go away at once.
LADY ANNE.
Take me away.
STEINBACH.
We must escape at once.
LADY ANNE.
Escape!
STEINBACH.
At the railway station we shall be safe. My yacht is at Southampton. My villa on the Italian coast is at your service should you not care to remain in England.
LADY ANNE.
To leave here defeated, scouted the reputed mistress of a socialist.
STEINBACH.
My dear Anne, we should never show our hearts, nor any volatile fragment of our hearts, outside of our own society.
LADY ANNE.
Oh! this is disgraceful. It was cruel of him to betray me.
STEINBACH.
He sacrificed you to his honour, and we’ve seen how the populace appreciated the sacrifice. Come, Anne, come... go for a wrap, and let’s get away at once.
LADY ANNE.
Flight!
STEINBACH.
You shall be revenged. To-morrow the mine will be under military protection. Non-unionist labour shall be imported, cost what it may, and you shall dictate your own terms. Now go for a wrap, and let us go away at once.
(Exit LADY ANNE, right. STEINBACH looks at his watch. He goes to the window.)
Crowds coming this way.... If that fellow should have escaped, he’ll be sure to come after her.... Then we shall have the town down upon us; the house will be pillaged. (Returning, left.) Anne, Anne, I beg you to hasten.
(Enter LADY ANNE, wrapped in shawl.)
LADY ANNE.
I’m ready. Come, let’s lose no time. A multitude seems to fill the street... I’m frightened. If you weren’t here what should I do?
STEINBACH.
You treated me shockingly, but I was determined to win you.
(They go towards the window that leads on to the lawn. Enter REID, torn and haggard.)
Have no fear. In a week we shall be in Italy. REID.
So you are going away with him?
(LADY ANNE and STEINBACH turn round,)
LADY ANNE.
You escaped the mob, then?
REID.
I escaped the mob.
LADY ANNE.
Are you hurt?
REID.
Mortally, though hardly a blow reached me.
LADY ANNE.
We were watching from that window, and we thought that we saw you killed.
REID.
I escaped by a miracle. A door was suddenly opened — I fled through it; it was closed behind me — I know not by whom. I fled through the house, climbed some walls, dodged the crowd through some back streets.... I’ve come back to find you leaving with Baron Steinbach.
LADY ANNE.
Why did you betray me?
REID.
Did I betray any one but myself?
LADY ANNE.
And after betrayal and broken promises you returned here expecting —
REID.
Forgive my poor expectations — they are my last So you are going away with Baron Steinbach?
LADY ANNE.
I am flying for my life.... If Baron Steinbach were not here —
REID.
You could not look to me for help? Truly you could not.
LADY ANNE.
You cannot remain here. You’ll be taken and torn to pieces. You must escape.
STEINBACH (coming down the stage).
Lady Anne is right, you must escape; it is too horrible.
REID.
Spare me your pity, Baron Steinbach. Spare me that. You’ve won on every side. Be satisfied with your victory.
STEINBACH.
You misunderstand me. I intended no insult Let our former antagonism be forgotten. Let me help you —
REID.
I do not need your help or any one’s. I’m no coward, and will meet my fate as it should be met.
STEINBACH.
We do not doubt your courage, but it cannot avail you against numbers. If you leave this house you’ll be killed. But you’re safe here, and at daybreak you can escape. I’ll see that help is sent, and afterwards — (REID looks at STEINBACH. STEINBACH turns from REID to LADY ANNE.) Anne, we must go away. (He looks once more at REID.)
REID.
Think no more of me. That is the greatest kindness.
STEINBACH.
But you’ll do what I say? You’ll remain here till daybreak?
REID.
Yes, I’ll remain here.
LADY ANNE.
And at daybreak you’ll escape?
REID.
I shall escape.
STEINBACH.
Lady Anne, come away. (REID sinks into a chair.) Come, Lady Anne, come.
LADY ANNE (from the window that opens on to lawn).
Will he escape?
STEINBACH.
He says so. Come, I insist (Exeunt LADY ANNE and STEINBACH. REID watches for a moment.)
REID.
They have gone. They have gone away together. (Goes to window, left Listens, and comes down the stage.) There is no time to lose; they have discovered that I am here. (Puts bottle on table.)
(Enter ELLEN.)
ELLEN.
They’ve tracked you here. The house will soon be surrounded. You must escape at once.
REID.
And you came here to warn me?
ELLEN.
Yes.
REID.
Thank you.
ELLEN.
Escape, escape while there’s yet time.
REID.
Escape. Why should I escape? For why?
ELLEN.
For her sake.
REID.
I escaped the mob only to find her leaving for Italy with Baron Steinbach.
ELLEN.
So she deceived you.
REID.
No, I am the deception, the only deception, and that deception is about to cease.
ELLEN.
You mean suicide?
REID.
Yes, escapement from self. I put it to you — you’re a sensible girl, Ellen, and you don’t lie. You’ll not deceive me. Remember that you once loved me.
ELLEN.
Yes, I once loved you.
REID.
Thank you for those words. Now listen. I have lost all I have betrayed the woman I loved, and I have been betrayed by her. I’ve betrayed the woman who loved me. I have lost not only her love but her respect Worse than all, I’ve lost honour; never again can I look the world in the face. Belief in the cause is gone too — everything is gone — I stand a moral bankrupt In such juncture of circumstances man must escape from self, I ask you is this not so?
ELLEN.
I cannot see that you could ever find happiness again in life, either for yourself or others.
REID.
That is how I feel, Ellen. I suppose all suicides feel the same.... It would have been better if I’d gone down fighting.... The brutes, I still feel their foul breaths on my face, and their foul hands. I abandoned my own class for their sake, but I never could assimilate my life with theirs. I’m not of any class or of any convictions. Why should I remain?
ELLEN.
No, no, you must not do this.
REID.
What would you have me do?
ELLEN.
Escape at once.... No, at daybreak.
REID.
Skulk out of the town at daybreak, and live face to face with my dishonour. Ellen, there is but one thing to be done.
(A pause, during which ELLEN struggles with her emotion.)
ELLEN.
It is very terrible, but I suppose it is as you say. (Paused) Have you the means?
REID.
Yes. It appears that about a year ago her old favourite dog had to be poisoned. This remained.
ELLEN.
So the poison came from her. She’s the world’s poison. (Pause.) They’re all about the house. They’ll break in soon.... But they shall not kill you.
REID.
I’m safe from them. A moment and it is done. (Pause.) You’ll forgive me the pain I’ve caused you. You’ll forgive my want of faith. You’ll forgive everything? You’ll try to remember when my worst faults press hardest on your memory that I honestly desired the light, and that I sought although I did not find.
ELLEN.
All is forgiven to the dead.
REID.
Good-bye, Ellen. (Kisses her on her forehead.)
Good-bye. You must not remain here. (He leads her to the door.) Good-bye, Ellen. (Exit.)
(He looks at poison. He goes to the cabinet, gets some water, dissolves the strychnine, and comes down the stage, the glass in his hand, with his back partly turned to the audience; he raises the glass to drink; as he does so, the curtain falls.)
CURTAIN.
The Bending of the Bough
CONTENTS
LIST OF CHARACTERS
PREFACE
ACT THE FIRST.
ACT THE SECOND.
ACT THE THIRD.
ACT THE FOURTH.
ACT THE FIFTH.
LIST OF CHARACTERS
JOSEPH TENCH, THE Mayor.
Aldermen of the Corporation:
JASPER DEAN
DANIEL LAWRENCE
THOMAS FERGUSON
VALENTINE FOLEY
RALF KIRWAN
JAMES POLLOCK
MICHAEL LEECH
JOHN CLORAN, the Town Clerk.
MACNEE, Caretaker of the Town Hall.
GEORGE HARDMAN, Lord Mayor of Southhaven.
Miss MILLICENT FELL, his Niece, engaged to marry ALDERMAN DEAN.
Maiden Aunts of ALDERMAN DEAN:
Miss CAROLINE DEAN
MISS ARABELLA DEAN
MRS. POLLOCK, Wife and First Cousin of ALDERMAN POLLOCK, Sister of ALDERMAN LEECH, and Cousin of the DEANS.
MRS. LEECH, Wife and First Cousin of ALDERMAN LEECH, Sister of ALDERMAN POLLOCK, and also Cousin of the DEANS.
A PARLOURMAID at ALDERMAN DEAN’S House.
A WAITER at the Hotel.
Several Town Councillors, People, &c.
PREFACE
FOR SOME TIME the necessity of explaining the intentions of the Irish Literary Theatre has been pressing upon us. So I take advantage of the publication of my play, “The Bending of the Bough,” to explain why Mr. Martyn, Mr. Yeats, and myself prefer to have our plays produced in Dublin rather than in London. It must seem singular to many that we should choose to produce plays in Dublin, where there are few people and very little money, rather than in London, where the audience is unlimited and the purse too, which is always forthcoming when amusements are for sale. Well, it is because we believe London to be too large, too old, and too wealthy to permit of any new artistic movement, and this belief rests upon knowledge of the art history of the world, and some experience of London theatrical conditions. And the essence of our experience of London theatrical conditions is our appreciation of the importance of the fact that whereas Ibsen and Maeterlinck, the great dramatic poets of modern time, have failed completely on the London stage, the ordinary dramatic writer, by the aid of scenery, dresses, and a little dialogue, provides an entertainment which pleases every one. The consistent failure — a failure extending now over ten years — of him whom we regard as the greatest dramatic writer since Shakespeare and of all writers whose work rises above the commonplace, signifies to us that London has ceased to be a place where the work of a poet is appreciated on the stage. We have therefore turned our backs upon London as men turn their backs on a place which has ceased to interest them. But we did not decide on our homeward journey without having considered the reformation of London. After some doubts, some hesitation, it suddenly came upon us that it was impossible. It was suddenly borne in upon us that England had produced her dramatic literature (since Shakespeare only two plays have outlived a generation); England seems to us to have reached the age of manhood, an age at which a nation ceases to produce art, for art belongs to the youth of a nation as empire belongs to its manhood, if it attains to manhood.
In the middle of the century we enjoyed a pleasant St. Martin summer, but though leaves retain their summer green a long while, we read in the August leaf the sered September leaf, and in the September leaf the October leaf, listless and red and yellow. And now in artistic England the pallor of centuries shines in the inactive autumn air. The thrush is silent, the nightingale has flown, and the robin sits on the coral hedge piping his little roundelay. Nothing can revive the season; it will never come again; art knows no sweet returning. Empire, like autumn, is splendid, but silent woods are sad, and in our eagerness for the song of the thrush and the blackbird we fain would detect an accent of their music in the scream of the jay and the cry of the swallow. It were better to delight a moment in the little candour of the robin, and to admire the coral hedge as the gift of the irreparable year. England can say with pride: “England has produced a full measur
e of music, poetry, painting, and drama; she has completed her spiritual and is now fashioning her material destiny; nations like individuals have two destinies, and who shall deny that the building of an empire is not as important as the singing of a song? England has sung enough; no songs are like her songs, and now she is engaged on the work of her middle age.”
But for some reason, so deep in the heart that we cannot define it, the glory of empire does not compensate for the loss of the song and the bust; without them the crown is incomplete and its glory the pallor of ashes.
We become aware of this as we cross Trafalgar Square, whence can be seen on either side the towers of Westminster and the domes of the National Gallery. Looking from one to the other it seems to us strange that no one in a hundred years will be concerned to know how any one of the men who sit deliberating the fate of a continent lived and died: whether he lived married or single, whether his life was a happy or a sorry one, whether he died in exile or in Carlton House Terrace, and that we should be so deeply concerned to know something of the lives of men who drew a few heads, brushed in a few skies and trees, or sang a few songs? Why should we be so eager to know why Shelley left his first wife, why Sir Joshua never married, and be so little curious about the lives of the politicians who sat at Westminster in the supreme moments of the eighteenth century? I can think of no other reason except that the traffic of ministers is with this world, whereas dreams and visions and aspirations come from beyond the world. The things of this world are forgotten; and we remember a nation for its art rather than for its colonies. The Hollanders founded like ourselves an empire, but the names of their colonies, though known to us, are not often upon our lips, and never in our hearts. But Rembrandt is a name to ponder on, its very sound lifts us out of the trance of our daily life; and the names Hals Ruysdael and Van der Meer are always with us, nearer and more intimate than the names of our brothers or sisters or friends.
Art is produced in the youth of a nation, when the nation is small, when national enthusiasm is awakening, and visions draw into a national focus, and the intellect of every one is akin. With the Assyrian, the Chinese, the Persian, the Roman, and the British empires contrast Egypt, Greece, the Italian States, Venice, Holland, and the English Island. Greece and Holland present perfect and typical examples of the birth of art in nations. It was in 450 B.C. that the Greeks drove the Persians out of Greece, and then an art began before which every art since has bowed reverently, and learned something; and at the end of the sixteenth century the Hollanders raised the sea-banks and rescued their country from the Spaniards, and immediately art flowered like the springtime, suddenly and everywhere; and in a country no larger than Greece thirty great painters were born within the little span of some thirty or forty years; and since then there has been no further painting in Holland, and in the countries of Titian and Velasquez no one is now found who can draw a nose with even tolerable decorum.
