by Unknown
DOWEY. Your servant, ladies.
(He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this private dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The ivit of mrs mickleham’s retorts. The badinage of mrs twymley. The neat giggles of the haggerty woman. There has been nothing like it since you took the countess in to dinner.’)
MRS TWYMLEY. We should apologise. We ‘re not meaning to stay.
MRS. DOWEY. You are very welcome. Just wait (the ostentation of this!) till I get out of my astrakhan — and my muff — and my gloves — and (it is the bonnet’s turn now) my Excelsior.
(At last we see her in the merino (a triumph).)
MRS MICKLEHAM. You’ve given her A glory time, Mr. Dowey.
DOWEY. It’s her that has given it to me, missis.
MRS. DOWEY. Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me (waggling her fists). The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!
(Vehemently) I swear by God that we had champagny wine.
(There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it means, she has even prepared for it.) And to them as doubts my words — here’s the cork.
(She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table.)
MRS MICKLEHAM. I’m sure!
MRS. TWYMLEY. I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against my Alfred.
MRS. dowey. Me!
DOWEY. Come, come, ladies (in the masterful way that is so hard for women to resist); if you say another word, I’ll kiss the lot of you.
(There is a moment of pleased confusion.)
MRS. MICKLEHAM. Really, them sodgers!
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. The kilties is the worst!
MRS. TWYMLEY (heartily). I’m sure we don’t grudge you your treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.
DOWEY. Yes, IT’S the end (with a troubled look at his old lady); I must be off in ten minutes.
(The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries into the pantry and shuts the door.)
MRS MICKLEHAM. Poor thing! But we must run, for you’ll be having some last words to say to her.
DOWEY. I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say them in.
(He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house.)
MRS. twymley. It’s the best way. (In the important affairs of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman.) Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.
(All three present him with the cigarettes.)
MRS. MICKLEHAM. A scraping, as one might say.
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN (enigmatically). The heart is warm though it may not be goldtipped.
DOWEY. You bricks!
THE LADIES. Good luck, cocky.
DOWEY. The same to you. And if you see A sodger man up there in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, but — but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.
(It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says ‘Hell! ‘to himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door and calls.)
DOWEY. Old lady.
(She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow.)
MRS DOWEY. Is it time?
(An encouraging voice answers her.)
DOWEY. No, no, not yet. I’ve left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.
MRS. DOWEY. All is ended.
DOWEY. Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.
MRS. DOWEY. Yes, Kenneth.
DOWEY. It’s bad for me, but it’s worse for you.
MRS. DOWEY. The men have medals to win, you SEE.
DOWEY. The women have their medals too.
(He knows she likes him to order her about, so he tries it again.)
DOWEY. Come here. No, I’ll come to you. (He stands gaping at her wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor dots he quite know what he would like to say.) God!
MRS. DOWEY. What is it, Kenneth?
DOWEY. You ‘re a woman.
MRS. DOWEY. I had near forgot it.
(He wishes he was at the station with dixon dixon is sure to have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in the meantime — there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course — or mostly blethers. But it’s the way to please her.)
DOWEY. Have you noticed you have never called me son?
MRS DOWEY. Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.
DOWEY. And so you WERE. Well, the probation’s ended.
(He laughs uncomfortably.) The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.
MRS. DOWEY. Kenneth, will I do?
DOWEY (artfully gay). Woman, don’t be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.
MRS. DOWEY. Propose for a mother?
DOWEY. What for no? (In the grand style) Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?
(She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with him.)
MRS. DOWEY. None of your sauce, Kenneth.
DOWEY. For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish feelings for you.
MRS. DOWEY. Wait till I get my mop to you!
DOWEY. And if you ‘re not willing to be my mother, I swear I’ll never ask another.
(The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair.)
Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?
MRS DOWEY. Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.
DOWEY. Was I slow in learning to walk?
MRS. DOWEY. The quickest in our street. He! HE! HE!
(She starts up.) Was that the whistle?
DOWEY. No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, joined the Black Watch.
MRS. DOWEY. I like to think that, Kenneth.
DOWEY. Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you.’Tion! (She stands bravely at attention.)
That’s the style. Now listen. I’ve sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.
MRS. DOWEY. Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?
DOWEY. I’ll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap —
MRS DOWEY. Kenneth!
DOWEY.’Tion! Have no fear. I’ll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me. (He is listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee.)
MRS. DOWEY. Hey! hey! hey! hey!
DOWEY. What fun we’ll have writing to one another! Real letters this time.
MRS. DOWEY. Yes.
DOWEY. It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I’ve gone.
MRS. DOWEY. I will.
DOWEY. I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.
MRS. DOWEY. You may be sure.
(He ties his scarf round her neck.)
DOWEY. You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.
MRS. DOWEY. Away with you!
DOWEY. That scarf sets you fine. Mrs dowey. Blue was always my colour.
(The whistle sounds.)
DOWEY. Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.
(She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she does something that makes private dowey take off his bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely with dixon. We have one last glimpse of the old lady — a month or two after Kenneth’s death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the famili
ar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Savings Certificates, Kenneth’s bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old ‘un; yet she exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day’s toil.)
CURTAIN
DEAR BRUTUS
CONTENTS
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT I
The scene is a darkened room, which the curtain reveals so stealthily that if there was a mouse on the stage it is there still. Our object is to catch our two chief characters unawares; they are Darkness and Light.
The room is so obscure as to be invisible, but at the back of the obscurity are French windows, through which is seen Lob’s garden bathed in moonshine. The Darkness and Light, which this room and garden represent, are very still, but we should feel that it is only the pause in which old enemies regard each other before they come to the grip. The moonshine stealing about among the flowers, to give them their last instructions, has left a smile upon them, but it is a smile with a menace in it for the dwellers in darkness. What we expect to see next is the moonshine slowly pushing the windows open, so that it may whisper to a confederate in the house, whose name is Lob. But though we may be sure that this was about to happen it does not happen; a stir among the dwellers in darkness prevents it.
These unsuspecting ones are in the dining-room, and as a communicating door opens we hear them at play. Several tenebrious shades appear in the lighted doorway and hesitate on the two steps that lead down into the unlit room. The fanciful among us may conceive a rustle at the same moment among the flowers. The engagement has begun, though not in the way we had intended.
VOICES. —
‘Go on, Coady: lead the way.’
‘Oh dear, I don’t see why I should go first.’
‘The nicest always goes first.’
‘It is a strange house if I am the nicest.’
‘It is a strange house.’
‘Don’t close the door; I can’t see where the switch is.’
‘Over here.’
They have been groping their way forward, blissfully unaware of how they shall be groping there again more terribly before the night is out. Some one finds a switch, and the room is illumined, with the effect that the garden seems to have drawn back a step as if worsted in the first encounter. But it is only waiting.
The apparently inoffensive chamber thus suddenly revealed is, for a bachelor’s home, creditably like a charming country house drawingroom and abounds in the little feminine touches that are so often best applied by the hand of man. There is nothing in the room inimical to the ladies, unless it be the cut flowers which are from the garden and possibly in collusion with it. The fireplace may also be a little dubious. It has been hacked out of a thick wall which may have been there when the other walls were not, and is presumably the cavern where Lob, when alone, sits chatting to himself among the blue smoke. He is as much at home by this fire as any gnome that may be hiding among its shadows; but he is less familiar with the rest of the room, and when he sees it, as for instance on his lonely way to bed, he often stares long and hard at it before chuckling uncomfortably.
There are five ladies, and one only of them is elderly, the Mrs. Coade whom a voice in the darkness has already proclaimed the nicest. She is the nicest, though the voice was no good judge. Coady, as she is familiarly called and as her husband also is called, each having for many years been able to answer for the other, is a rounded old lady with a beaming smile that has accompanied her from childhood. If she lives to be a hundred she will pretend to the census man that she is only ninety-nine. She has no other vice that has not been smoothed out of existence by her placid life, and she has but one complaint against the male Coady, the rather odd one that he has long forgotten his first wife. Our Mrs. Coady never knew the first one but it is she alone who sometimes looks at the portrait of her and preserves in their home certain mementoes of her, such as a lock of brown hair, which the equally gentle male Coady must have treasured once but has now forgotten. The first wife had been slightly lame, and in their brief married life he had carried solicitously a rest for her foot, had got so accustomed to doing this, that after a quarter of a century with our Mrs. Coady he still finds footstools for her as if she were lame also. She has ceased to pucker her face over this, taking it as a kind little thoughtless attention, and indeed with the years has developed a friendly limp.
Of the other four ladies, all young and physically fair, two are married. Mrs. Dearth is tall, of smouldering eye and fierce desires, murky beasts lie in ambush in the labyrinths of her mind, she is a white-faced gypsy with a husky voice, most beautiful when she is sullen, and therefore frequently at her best. The other ladies when in conclave refer to her as The Dearth. Mrs. Purdie is a safer companion for the toddling kind of man. She is soft and pleading, and would seek what she wants by laying her head on the loved one’s shoulder, while The Dearth might attain it with a pistol. A brighter spirit than either is Joanna Trout who, when her affections are not engaged, has a merry face and figure, but can dismiss them both at the important moment, which is at the word ‘love.’ Then Joanna quivers, her sense of humour ceases to beat and the dullest man may go ahead. There remains Lady Caroline Laney of the disdainful poise, lately from the enormously select school where they are taught to pronounce their r’s as w’s; nothing else seems to be taught, but for matrimonial success nothing else is necessary. Every woman who pronounces r as w will find a mate; it appeals to all that is chivalrous in man.
An old-fashioned gallantry induces us to accept from each of these ladies her own estimate of herself, and fortunately it is favourable in every case. This refers to their estimate of themselves up to the hour of ten on the evening on which we first meet them; the estimate may have changed temporarily by the time we part from them on the following morning. What their mirrors say to each of them is, A dear face, not classically perfect but abounding in that changing charm which is the best type of English womanhood; here is a woman who has seen and felt far more than her reticent nature readily betrays; she sometimes smiles, but behind that concession, controlling it in a manner hardly less than adorable, lurks the sigh called Knowledge; a strangely interesting face, mysterious; a line for her tombstone might be ‘If I had been a man what adventures I could have had with her who lies here.’
Are these ladies then so very alike? They would all deny it, so we must take our own soundings. At this moment of their appearance in the drawingroom at least they are alike in having a common interest. No sooner has the dining-room door closed than purpose leaps to their eyes; oddly enough, the men having been got rid of, the drama begins.
ALICE DEARTH (the darkest spirit but the bravest). We must not waste a second. Our minds are made up, I think?
JOANNA. Now is the time.
MRS. COADE (at once delighted and appalled). Yes, now if at all; but should we?
ALICE. Certainly; and before the men come in.
MABEL PURDIE. You don’t think we should wait for the men? They are as much in it as we are.
LADY CAROLINE (unlucky, as her opening remark is without a single r). Lob would be with them. If the thing is to be done at all it should be done now.
MRS. COADE. IS it quite fair to Lob? After all, he is our host.
JOANNA. Of course it isn’t fair to him, but let�
�s do it, Coady.
MRS. COADE. Yes, let’s do it!
MABEL. Mrs. Dearth is doing it.
ALICE (who is writing out a telegram). Of course I am. The men are not coming, are they?
JOANNA (reconnoitring). NO; your husband is having another glass of port.
ALICE. I am sure he is. One of you ring, please.
(The bold Joanna rings.)
MRS. COADE. Poor Matey!
LADY CAROLINE. He wichly desewves what he is about to get.
JOANNA. He is coming! Don’t all stand huddled together like conspirators.
