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Title: The Master of Mrs. Chilvers: An Improbable Comedy
Author: Jerome, Jerome K. (Jerome Klapka)
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Master of Mrs. Chilvers: An Improbable Comedy" ***
Transcribed from the 1911 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Book cover]
_THE MASTER of_
_MRS. CHILVERS_
_AN IMPROBABLE COMEDY_
IMAGINED BY
_JEROME K. JERMONE_
* * * * *
_LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN_
_ADELPHI TERRACE_
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT 1911 BY JEROME K. JEROME
IN THE U.S.A.
* * * * *
(_All rights reserved_.)
* * * * *
THE FIRST ACT
SCENE: Drawing-room, 91, Russell Square.
TIME: 3 p.m.
THE SECOND ACT
SCENE: Liberal Committee Room, East India Dock Road.
TIME: 5 p.m.
THE THIRD ACT
SCENE: The Town Hall, East Poplar.
TIME: 10 p.m.
THE FOURTH ACT
SCENE: Russell Square
TIME: Midnight
THE CAST OF “THE MASTER OF MRS. CHILVERS”
AS IT WAS PRODUCED AT THE ROYALTY THEATRE, LONDON, ON
APRIL 26TH, 1911, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF
MESSRS. VEDRENNE & EADIE.
Lady Mogton MARY RORKE
Annys Chilvers LENA ASHWELL
Phoebe Mogton ETHEL DANE
Janet Blake GILLIAN SCAIFE
Mrs. Mountcalm Villiers SARAH BROOKE
Elizabeth Spender AURIOL LEE
Rose Merton ESME BERINGER
Mrs. Chinn SYDNEY FAIRBROTHER
Geoffrey Chilvers, M.P. DENNIS EADIE
Dorian St. Herbert LEON QUARTERMAINE
Ben Lamb, M.P. A. E. BENEDICT
William Gordon EDMUND GWENN
Sigsby MICHAEL SHERBROOKE
Hake H. B. TABBERER
Mr. Peekin GERALD MIRRIELEES
Mr. Hopper STANLEY LOGAN
Mrs. Peekin ROWENA JEROME
Miss Borlasse CATHLEEN NESBITT
Miss Ricketts HETTA BARTLETT
CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY
GEOFFREY CHILVERS, M.P. A loving husband, and (would-be)
(_President Men’s League for the affectionate father. Like many
Extension of the Franchise to other good men, he is in sympathy
Women_) with the Woman’s Movement: “not
thinking it is coming in his
time.”
ANNYS CHILVERS (_née Mogton_, A loving wife, and (would-be)
_Hon. Sec. Women’s Parliamentary affection mother. Many thousands
Franchise League_) of years have gone to her making.
A generation ago, she would have
been the ideal woman: the ideal
helpmeet. But new ideas are
stirring in her blood, a new
ideal of womanhood is forcing
itself upon her.
LADY MOGTON (_President She knows she would be of more
W.P.F.L._) use in Parliament than many of
the men who are there; is
naturally annoyed at the Law’s
stupidity in keeping her out.
PHOEBE MOGTON (_Org. Sec. The new girl, thinking more of
W.P.F.L._) politics than of boys. But that
will probably pass.
JANET BLAKE (_Jt. Org. Sec. She dreams of a new heaven and a
W.P.F.L._) new earth when woman has the
vote.
MRS. MOUNTCALM VILLIERS She was getting tired of
(_Vice-President W.P.F.L._) flirting. The Woman’s Movement
has arrived just at the right
moment.
ELIZABETH SPENDER (_Hons. Treas. She sees woman everywhere the
W.P.F.L._) slave of man: now pampered, now
beaten, but ever the slave. She
can see no hope of freedom but
through warfare.
MRS. CHINN A mother.
JAWBONES A bill-poster. Movements that do
not fit in with the essentials of
life on thirty shillings a week
have no message so far as
Jawbones is concerned.
GINGER Whose proper name is Rose Merton,
and who has to reconcile herself
to the fact that so far as her
class is concerned the primæval
laws still run.
DORIAN ST. HERBERT (_Hon. Sec. He is interested in all things,
M.L.E.F.W._) the Woman’s Movement included.
BEN LAMB, M.P. As a student of woman, he admits
to being in the infants’ class.
SIGSBY An Election Agent. He thinks the
modern woman suffers from
over-indulgence. He would
recommend to her the teachings of
St. Paul.
HAKE A butler. He does not see how to
avoid his wife being practically
a domestic servant without wages.
A DEPUTATION It consists of two men and three
women. Superior people would
call them Cranks. But Cranks
have been of some service to the
world, and the use of superior
people is still to be discovered.
THE FIRST ACT
SCENE:—_Drawing-room_, 91, _Russell Square_.
TIME:—_Afternoon_.
(MRS. ELIZABETH SPENDER _sits near the fire_, _reading a book_. _She is
a tall_, _thin woman_, _with passionate eyes_, _set in an oval face of
olive complexion_; _the features are regular and severe_; _her massive
dark hair is almost primly arranged_. _She wears a tailor-made costume_,
_surmounted by a plain black hat_. _The door opens and_ PHOEBE _enters_,
_shown in by_ HAKE, _the butler_, _a thin_, _ascetic-looking man of about
thirty_, _with prematurely grey hair_. PHOEBE MOGTON _is of the Fluffy
Ruffles type_, _petite_, _with a retroussé nose_, _remarkably bright
eyes_, _and a quantity of fluffy light hair_, _somewhat untidily
arranged_. _She is fashionably dressed in the fussy_, _flyaway style_.
ELIZABETH _looks up_; _the two young women shake hands_.)
PHOEBE. Good woman. ’Tisn’t three o’clock yet, is it?
ELIZABETH. About five minutes to.
PHOEBE. Annys is on her way. I just caught her in time. (_To_ HAKE.)
Put a table and six chairs. Give mamma a hammer and a cushion at her
back.
HAKE. A hammer, miss?
PHOEBE. A chairman’s hammer. Haven’t you got one?
HAKE. I’m afraid not, miss. Would a gravy spoon do?
PHOEBE (_To_ ELIZABETH, _after expression of disgust_.) Fancy a house
without a chairman’s hammer! (_To_ HAKE.) See that there’s something.
Did your wife go to the meeting last night?
HAKE (_He is arranging furniture according to instructions_.) I’m not
quite sure, miss. I gave her the evening out.
PHOEBE. “Gave her the evening out”!
ELIZABETH. We are speaking of your wife, man, not your servant.
HAKE. Yes, miss. You see, we don’t keep servants in our class.
Somebody’s got to put the children to bed.
ELIZABETH. Why not the man—occasionally?
HAKE. Well, you see, miss, in my case, I rarely getting home much before
midnight, it would make it so late. Yesterday being my night off, things
fitted in, so to speak. Will there be any writing, miss?
PHOEBE. Yes. See that there’s plenty of blotting-paper. (_To_
ELIZABETH.) Mamma always splashes so.
HAKE. Yes, miss.
(_He goes out_.)
ELIZABETH. Did you ever hear anything more delightfully naïve? He
“gave” her the evening out. That’s how they think of us—as their
servants. The gentleman hasn’t the courage to be straightforward about
it. The butler blurts out the truth. Why are we meeting here instead of
at our own place?
PHOEBE. For secrecy, I expect. Too many gasbags always about the
office. I fancy—I’m not quite sure—that mamma’s got a new idea.
ELIZABETH. Leading to Holloway?
PHOEBE. Well, most roads lead there.
ELIZABETH. And end there—so far as I can see.
PHOEBE. You’re too impatient.
ELIZABETH. It’s what our friends have been telling us—for the last fifty
years.
PHOEBE. Look here, if it was only the usual sort of thing mamma wouldn’t
want it kept secret. I’m inclined to think it’s a new departure
altogether.
(_The door opens_. _There enters_ JANET BLAKE, _followed by_ HAKE,
_who proceeds with his work_. JANET BLAKE _is a slight_,
_fragile-looking creature_, _her great dark eyes—the eyes of a
fanatic—emphasise the pallor of her childish face_. _She is shabbily
dressed_; _a plain_, _uninteresting girl until she smiles_, _and then
her face becomes quite beautiful_. PHOEBE _darts to meet her_.) Good
girl. Was afraid—I say, you’re wet through.
JANET. It was only a shower. The ’buses were all full. I had to ride
outside.
PHOEBE. Silly kid, why didn’t you take a cab?
JANET. I’ve been reckoning it up. I’ve been half over London chasing
Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers. Cabs would have come, at the very least, to
twelve-and-six.
PHOEBE. Well—
JANET (_To_ ELIZABETH.) Well—I want you to put me down as a contributor
for twelve-and-six. (_She smiles_.) It’s the only way I can give.
PHOEBE. (_She is taking off_ JANET’S _cloak_; _throws it to_ HAKE.)
Have this put somewhere to dry. (_She pushes_ JANET _to the fire_.) Get
near the fire. You’re as cold as ice.
ELIZABETH. All the seats inside, I suppose, occupied by the chivalrous
sex.
JANET. Oh, there was one young fellow offered to give me up his place,
but I wouldn’t let him. You see, we’re claiming equality. (_Smiles_.)
ELIZABETH. And are being granted it—in every direction where it works to
the convenience of man.
PHOEBE. (_Laughs_.) Is she coming—the Villiers woman?
JANET. Yes. I ran her down at last—at her dress-maker’s. She made an
awful fuss about it, but I wouldn’t leave till she’d promised. Tell me,
it’s something quite important, isn’t it?
PHOEBE. I don’t know anything, except that I had an urgent telegram from
mamma this morning to call a meeting of the entire Council here at three
o’clock. She’s coming up from Manchester on purpose. (_To_ HAKE.) Mrs.
Chilvers hasn’t returned yet, has she?
HAKE. Not yet, miss. Shall I telephone—
PHOEBE. (_Shakes her head_.) No; it’s all right. I have seen her. Let
her know we are here the moment she comes in.
HAKE. Yes, miss.
(_He has finished the arrangements_. _The table has been placed in the
centre of the room_, _six chairs round it_, _one of them being a large
armchair_. _He has placed writing materials and a large silver gravy
spoon_. _He is going_.)
PHOEBE. Why aren’t you sure your wife wasn’t at the meeting last night?
Didn’t she say anything?
HAKE. Well, miss, unfortunately, just as she was starting, Mrs.
Comerford—that’s the wife of the party that keeps the shop
downstairs—looked in with an order for the theatre.
PHOEBE. Oh!
HAKE. So I thought it best to ask no questions.
PHOEBE. Thank you.
HAKE. Thank you, miss.
(_He goes out_.)
ELIZABETH. Can nothing be done to rouse the working-class woman out of
her apathy?
PHOEBE. Well, if you ask me, I think a good deal has been done.
ELIZABETH. Oh, what’s the use of our deceiving ourselves? The great
mass are utterly indifferent.
JANET (_She is seated in an easy-chair near the fire_.) I was talking to
a woman only yesterday—in Bethnal Green. She keeps a husband and three
children by taking in washing. “Lord, miss,” she laughed, “what would we
do with the vote if we did have it? Only one thing more to give to the
men.”
PHOEBE. That’s rather good.
ELIZABETH. The curse of it is that it’s true. Why should they put
themselves out merely that one man instead of another should dictate
their laws to them?
PHOEBE. My dear girl, precisely the same argument was used against the
Second Reform Bill. What earthly difference could it make to the working
men whether Tory Squire or Liberal capitalist ruled over them? That was
in 1868. To-day, fifty-four Labour Members sit in Parliament. At the
next election they will hold the balance.
ELIZABETH. Ah, if we could only hold out _that_ sort of hope to them!
(ANNYS _enters_. _She is in outdoor costume_. _She kisses_ PHOEBE,
_shakes hands with the other two_. ANNYS’S _age is about twenty-five_.
_She is a beautiful_, _spiritual-looking creature_, _tall and
graceful_, _with a manner that is at the same time appealing and
commanding_. _Her voice is soft and caressing_, _but capable of
expressing all the emotions_. _Her likeness to her younger sister_
PHOEBE _is of the slightest_: _the colouring is the same_, _and the
eyes that can flash_, _but there the similarity ends_. _She is simply
but well dressed_. _Her soft hair makes a quiet but wonderfully
effective frame to her face_.)
ANNYS. (_She is taking off her outdoor things_.) Hope I’m not late. I
had to look in at Caxton House. Why are we holding it here?
PHOEBE. Mamma’s instructions. Can’t tell you anything more except that
I gather the matter’s important, and is to be kept secret.
ANNYS. Mamma isn’t here, is she?
PHOEBE. (_Shakes her head_.) Reaches St. Pancras at two-forty. (_Looks
at her watch_.) Train’s late, I expect.
(HAKE _has entered_.)
ANNYS. (_She hands_ HAKE _her hat and coat_.) Have something ready in
case Lady Mogton hasn’t lunched. Is your master in?
HAKE. A messenger came for him soon after you left, ma’am. I was to
tell you he would most likely be dining at the House.
ANNYS. Thank you.
(HAKE _goes out_.)
ANNYS. (_To_ ELIZABETH.) I so want you to meet Geoffrey. He’ll alter
your opinion of men.
ELIZABETH. My opinion of men has been altered once or twice—each time
for the worse.
ANNYS. Why do you dislike men?
ELIZABETH. (_With a short laugh_.) Why does the slave dislike the
slave-owner?
PHOEBE. Oh, come off the perch. You spend five thousand a year provided
for you by a husband that you only see on Sundays. We’d all be slaves at
that price.
ELIZABETH. The chains have always been stretched for the few. My
sympathies are with my class.
ANNYS. But men like Geoffrey—men who are devoting their whole time and
energy to furthering our cause; what can you have to say against them?
ELIZABETH. Simply that they don’t know what they’re doing. The French
Revolution was nursed in the salons of the French nobility. When the
true meaning of the woman’s movement is understood we shall have to get
on without the male sympathiser.
(_A pause_.)
ANNYS. What do you understand is the true meaning of the woman’s
movement?
ELIZABETH. The dragging down of man from his position of supremacy.
What else can it mean?
ANNYS. Something much better. The lifting up of woman to be his
partner.
ELIZABETH. My dear Annys, the men who to-day are advocating votes for
women are doing so in the hope of securing obedient supporters for their
own political schemes. In New Zealand the working man brings his female
relations in a van to the poll, and sees to it that they vote in
accordance with his orders. When man once grasps the fact that woman is
not going to be his henchman, but his rival, men and women will face one
another as enemies.
(_The door opens_. HAKE _announces_ LADY MOGTON _and_ DORIAN ST.
HERBERT. LADY MOGTON _is a large_, _strong-featured woman_, _with a
naturally loud voice_. _She is dressed with studied carelessness_.
DORIAN ST. HERBERT, K.C., _is a tall_, _thin man_, _about thirty_. _He
is elegantly_, _almost dandily dressed_.)
ANNYS. (_Kissing her mother_.) Have you had lunch?
LADY MOGTON. In the train.
PHOEBE. (_Who has also kissed her mother and shaken hands with_ ST.
HERBERT.) We are all here except Villiers. She’s coming. Did you have
a good meeting?
LADY MOGTON. Fairly. Some young fool had chained himself to a pillar
and thrown the key out of window.
PHOEBE. What did you do?
LADY MOGTON. Tied a sack over his head and left him there.
(_She turns aside for a moment to talk to_ ST. HERBERT, _who has taken
some papers from his despatch-box_.)
ANNYS. (_To_ ELIZABETH.) We must finish out our talk some other time.
You are quite wrong.
ELIZABETH. Perhaps.
LADY MOGTON. We had better begin. I have only got half an hour.
JANET. I saw Mrs. Villiers. She promised she’d come.
LADY MOGTON. You should have told her we were going to be photographed.
Then she’d have been punctual. (_She has taken her seat at the table_.
ST. HERBERT _at her right_.) Better put another chair in case she does
turn up.
JANET. (_Does so_.) Shall I take any notes?
LADY MOGTON. No. (_To_ ANNYS.) Give instructions that we are not to be
interrupted for anything.
(ANNYS _rings bell_.)
ST. HERBERT. (_He turns to_ PHOEBE, _on his right_.) Have you heard the
latest?
_There was an old man of Hong Kong_,
_Whose language was terribly strong_.
(_Enter_ HAKE. _He brings a bottle and glass_, _which he places_.)
ANNYS. Oh, Hake, please, don’t let us be interrupted for anything. If
Mrs. Mountcalm-Villiers comes, show her up. But nobody else.
HAKE. Yes, ma’am.
(HAKE _goes out_.)
ST. HERBERT. (_Continuing_.)
_It wasn’t the words_
_That frightened the birds_,
_’Twas the ’orrible double-entendre_.
LADY MOGTON. (_Who has sat waiting in grim silence_.) Have you
finished?
ST. HERBERT. Quite finished.
LADY MOGTON. Thank you. (_She raps for silence_.) You will understand,
please, all, that this is a private meeting of the Council. Nothing that
transpires is to be allowed to leak out. (_There is a murmur_.)
Silence, please, for Mr. St. Herbert.
ST. HERBERT. Before we begin, I should like to remind you, ladies, that
you are, all of you, persons mentally deficient—
(_The door opens_. MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS _enters_, _announced by_
HAKE. _She is a showily-dressed_, _flamboyant lady_.)
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. I _am_ so sorry. I have only just this
minute—(_She catches sight of_ ST. HERBERT.) You naughty creature, why
weren’t you at my meeting last night? The Rajah came with both his
wives. We’ve elected them, all three, honorary members.
LADY MOGTON. Do you mind sitting down?
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. Here, dear? (_She takes the vacant chair_.)
So nice of you. I read about your meeting. What a clever idea!
LADY MOGTON. (_Cuts her short_.) Yes. We are here to consider a very
important matter. By way of commencement Mr. St. Herbert has just
reminded us that in the eye of the law all women are imbeciles.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. I know, dear. Isn’t it shocking?
ST. HERBERT. Deplorable; but of course not your fault. I mention it
because of its importance to the present matter. Under Clause A of the
Act for the Better Regulation, &c., &c., all persons “mentally deficient”
are debarred from becoming members of Parliament. The classification has
been held to include idiots, infants, and women.
(_An interruption_. LADY MOGTON _hammers_.)
Bearing this carefully in mind, we proceed. (_He refers to his notes_.)
Two years ago a bye-election took place for the South-west division of
Belfast.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. My dear, may I? It has just occurred to me.
Why do we never go to Ireland?
LADY MOGTON. For various sufficient reasons.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. So many of the Irish members have expressed
themselves quite sympathetically.
LADY MOGTON. We wish them to continue to do so. (_Turns to_ ST.
HERBERT.) I’m sorry.
ST. HERBERT. A leader of the Orange Party was opposed by a Nationalist,
and the proceedings promised to be lively. They promised for a while to
be still livelier, owing to the nomination at the last moment of the
local lunatic.
PHOEBE. (_To_ ANNYS.) This is where we come in.
ST. HERBERT. There is always a local lunatic, who, if harmless, is
generally a popular character. James Washington McCaw appears to have
been a particularly cheerful specimen. One of his eccentricities was to
always have a skipping-rope in his pocket; wherever the traffic allowed
it, he would go through the streets skipping. He said it kept him warm.
Another of his tricks was to let off fireworks from the roof of his house
whenever he heard of the death of anybody of importance. The Returning
Officer refused his nomination—which, so far as his nominators were
concerned, was intended only as a joke—on the grounds of his being by
common report a person of unsound mind. And there, so far as South-west
Belfast was concerned, the matter ended.
PHOEBE. Pity.
ST. HERBERT. But not so far as the Returning Officer was concerned.
McCaw appears to have been a lunatic possessed of means, imbued with all
an Irishman’s love of litigation. He at once brought an action against
the Returning Officer, his contention being that his mental state was a
private matter, of which the Returning Officer was not the person to
judge.
PHOEBE. He wasn’t a lunatic all over.
ST. HERBERT. We none of us are. The case went from court to court. In
every instance the decision was in favour of the Returning Officer.
Until it reached the House of Lords. The decision was given yesterday
afternoon—in favour of the man McCaw.
ELIZABETH. Then lunatics, at all events, are not debarred from going to
the poll.
ST. HERBERT. The “mentally deficient” are no longer debarred from going
to the poll.
ELIZABETH. What grounds were given for the decision?
ST. HERBERT. (_He refers again to his notes_.) A Returning Officer can
only deal with objections arising out of the nomination paper. He has no
jurisdiction to go behind a nomination paper and constitute himself a
court of inquiry as to the fitness or unfitness of a candidate.
PHOEBE. Good old House of Lords!
(LADY MOGTON _hammers_.)
ELIZABETH. But I thought it was part of the Returning Officer’s duty to
inquire into objections, that a special time was appointed to deal with
them.
ST. HERBERT. He will still be required to take cognisance of any
informality in the nomination paper or papers. Beyond that, this
decision relieves him of all further responsibility.
JANET. But this gives us everything.
ST. HERBERT. It depends upon what you call everything. It gives a woman
the right to go to the poll—a right which, as a matter of fact, she has
always possessed.
PHOEBE. Then why did the Returning Officer for Camberwell in 1885—
ST. HERBERT. Because he did not know the law. And Miss Helen Taylor had
not the means possessed by our friend McCaw to teach it to him.
ANNYS. (_Rises_. _She goes to the centre of the room_.)
LADY MOGTON. Where are you going?
ANNYS. (_She turns_; _there are tears in her eyes_. _The question seems
to recall her to herself_.) Nowhere. I am so sorry. I can’t help it.
It seems to me to mean so much. It gives us the right to go before the
people—to plead to them, not for ourselves, for them. (_Again she seems
to lose consciousness of those at the table_, _of the room_.) To the men
we will say: “Will you not trust us? Is it harm we have ever done you?
Have we not suffered for you and with you? Were we not sent into the
world to be your helpmeet? Are not the children ours as well as yours?
Shall we not work together to shape the world where they must dwell? Is
it only the mother-voice that shall not be heard in your councils? Is it
only the mother-hand that shall not help to guide?” To the women we will
say: “Tell them—tell them it is from no love of ourselves that we come
from our sheltered homes into the street. It is to give, not to get—to
mingle with the sterner judgments of men the deeper truths that God,
through pain, has taught to women—to mingle with man’s justice woman’s
pity, till there shall arise the perfect law—not made of man nor woman,
but of both, each bringing what the other lacks.” And they will listen
to us. Till now it has seemed to them that we were clamouring only for
selfish ends. They have not understood. We shall speak to them of
common purposes, use the language of fellow-citizens. They will see that
we are worthy of the place we claim. They will welcome us as helpers in
a common cause. They—
(_She turns_—_the present comes back to her_.)
LADY MOGTON. (_After a pause_.) The business (_she dwells severely on
the word_) before the meeting—
ANNYS. (_She resents herself meekly_. _Apologising generally_.) I
_must_ learn to control myself.
LADY MOGTON. (_Who has waited_.) —is McCaw versus Potts. Its bearing
upon the movement for the extension of the franchise to women. My own
view I venture to submit in the form of a resolution. (_She takes up a
paper on which she has been writing_.) As follows: That the Council of
the Woman’s Parliamentary Franchise League, having regard to the decision
of the House of Lords in McCaw v. Potts—
ST. HERBERT. (_Looking over_.) Two t’s.
LADY MOGTON. —resolves to bring forward a woman candidate to contest the
next bye-election. (_Suddenly to_ MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS, _who is
chattering_.) Do you agree or disagree?
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. My dear! How can you ask? Of course we all
agree. (_To Elizabeth_.) You agree, don’t you?
ELIZABETH. Of course, even if elected, she would not be allowed to take
her seat.
PHOEBE. How do you know? Nothing more full of surprises than English
law.
LADY MOGTON. At the present stage I regard that point as immaterial.
What I am thinking of is the advertisement. A female candidate upon the
platform will concentrate the whole attention of the country on our
movement.
ST. HERBERT. It might even be prudent—until you have got the vote—to
keep it dark that you will soon be proceeding to the next inevitable
step.
ELIZABETH. You think even man could be so easily deceived!
ST. HERBERT. Man has had so much practice in being deceived. It comes
naturally to him.
ELIZABETH. Poor devil!
LADY MOGTON. The only question remaining to be discussed is the
candidate.
ANNYS. Is there not danger that between now and the next bye-election
the Government may, having regard to this case, bring in a bill to stop
women candidates from going to the poll?
ST. HERBERT. I have thought of that. Fortunately, the case seems to
have attracted very little attention. If a bye-election occurred soon
there would hardly be time.
LADY MOGTON. It must be the very next one that does occur—wherever it
is.
JANET. I am sure that in the East End we should have a chance.
PHOEBE. Great Scott! Just think. If we were to win it!
ST. HERBERT. If you could get a straight fight against a Liberal I
believe you would.
ANNYS. Why is the Government so unpopular?
ST. HERBERT. Well, take the weather alone—twelve degrees of frost again
last night.
JANET. In St. George’s Road the sewer has burst. The water is in the
rooms where the children are sleeping. (_She clenches her hands_.)
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. (_She shakes her head_.) Something ought
really to be done.
LADY MOGTON. Has anybody any suggestion to make?—as regards the
candidate. There’s no advantage in going outside. It will have to be
one of ourselves.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. Won’t you, dear?
LADY MOGTON. I shall be better employed organising. My own feeling is
that it ought to be Annys. (_To_ ST. HERBERT.) What do you think?
ST. HERBERT. Undoubtedly.
ANNYS. I’d rather not.
LADY MOGTON. It’s not a question of liking. It’s a question of duty.
For this occasion we shall be appealing to the male voter. Our candidate
must be a woman popular with men. The choice is somewhat limited.
ELIZABETH. No one will put up so good a fight as you.
ANNYS. Will you give me till this evening?
LADY MOGTON. What for?
ANNYS. I should like to consult Geoffrey.
LADY MOGTON. You think he would object?
ANNYS. (_A little doubtfully_.) No. But we have always talked
everything over together.
LADY MOGTON. Absurd! He’s one of our staunchest supporters. Of course
he’ll be delighted.
ELIZABETH. I think the thing ought to be settled at once.
LADY MOGTON. It must be. I have to return to Manchester to-night. We
shall have to get to work immediately.
ST. HERBERT. Geoffrey will surely take it as a compliment.
JANET. Don’t you feel that woman, all over the world, is calling to you?
ANNYS. It isn’t that. I’m not trying to shirk it. I merely thought
that if there had been time—of course, if you really think—
LADY MOGTON. You consent?
ANNYS. Yes. If it’s everybody’s wish.
LADY MOGTON. That’s settled.
PHOEBE. (_She springs up_, _waving a handkerchief_.) Chilvers for ever!
JANET. (_Rises_.) God bless you!
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. (_Clapping her hands_.) Now we shan’t be long!
LADY MOGTON. (_Hammers_.) Order, please!
(_The three subside_.)
This is serious business. The next step is, of course—
(_The door opens_; GEOFFREY _enters_. _He is a youngish-looking man of
three or four and thirty_. LADY MOGTON, _at the sound of the door_,
_turns_. ST. HERBERT _rises_. _There is a pause_.)
LADY MOGTON. We’ve been talking about you. We must apologise for
turning your drawing-room—
GEOFFREY. My dear mother-in-law, it is Providence. (_He kisses her_.)
There is no one I was more longing to see.
ANNYS. (_She has risen_.) Hake told me you would be dining at the
House.
GEOFFREY. (_He comes to her_, _kisses her_, _he is in a state of
suppressed excitement_.) I shall be. I came back to bring you some
news.
PHOEBE. We’ve got some news for you. Have you heard—
GEOFFREY. (_He stays her_.) May I claim man’s privilege for the first
word? It is news, I am sure, you will all be delighted to hear. A
friend of yours has been appointed to an office where—it is quite
possible—he may be of service to you.
PHOEBE. Governorship of Holloway Gaol?
GEOFFREY. Not a bad guess. Very near it. To the Under-Secretaryship
for Home Affairs.
LADY MOGTON. Who is it?
GEOFFREY. (_He bows_.) Your affectionate and devoted servant.
ANNYS. You!
PHOEBE. (_Genuinely delighted_. _She is not a quick thinker_.) Bravo!
Congratulations, old boy! (_She has risen_—_she slaps him on the back_.)
ANNYS. Geoffrey! (_She puts her arms about him_.) You never told me
anything.
GEOFFREY. I know, dear. I was afraid. It mightn’t have come off. And
then you would have been so disappointed.
ANNYS. (_There are tears in her eyes_. _She still clings to him_.) I
am so glad. Oh, I am so glad!
GEOFFREY. It is all your doing. You have been such a splendid help.
(_He breaks gently away from her_. _Turns to_ ST. HERBERT, _with a
lighter tone_.) Haven’t you anything to say to a fellow? You’re not
usually dumb.
ST. HERBERT. It has all been so sudden—as the early Victorian heroine
was fond of remarking!
GEOFFREY. (_Laughs_.) It has been sudden. We had, none of us, any idea
till yesterday that old Bullock was thinking of resigning.
ELIZABETH. (_She has risen and moved towards the fire_.) Won’t it
necessitate a bye-election?
(LADY MOGTON _and_ ST. HERBERT _have been thinking it out_. _On the
others the word falls like a bombshell_.)
GEOFFREY. (_He turns to her_. _He does not see their faces_.) Yes.
But I don’t anticipate a contest. The Conservatives are without a
candidate, and I am on good terms with the Labour Party. Perhaps Mr.
Hunnable—(_He laughs_, _then_, _turning_, _catches sight of his wife’s
face_. _From_ ANNYS _he looks to the others_.)
LADY MOGTON. (_She has risen_.) You haven’t heard, then, of McCaw
versus Potts?
GEOFFREY. “McCaw versus Potts!” What the—
ST. HERBERT. Was decided in the House of Lords late yesterday afternoon.
Briefly stated, it confers upon women the right of becoming Parliamentary
candidates.
GEOFFREY. (_He is staggered_.) You mean—
LADY MOGTON. Having regard to which, we have decided to bring forward a
woman candidate to contest the next bye-election.
GEOFFREY. Um! I see.
ANNYS. But we never thought—we never anticipated it would be Geoffrey’s.
LADY MOGTON. I really cannot admit that that alters the case. Geoffrey
himself would never dream, I am sure, of asking us to sacrifice our cause
to his convenience.
GEOFFREY. No. Of course not. Certainly not.
LADY MOGTON. It is perhaps unfortunate that the candidate selected—
ANNYS. It is quite impossible. Such a dilemma was never dreamed of.
LADY MOGTON. And if not? Is the solidarity of woman—
GEOFFREY. (_Beginning to guess_.) Forgive my impatience; but whom
_have_ you selected?
ELIZABETH. (_When she likes she can be quite sweet_.) Your wife. (_He
expected it_.) We rather assumed (_she appeals to the others with a
gesture_), I think, that the president of the Man’s League for the
Extension of the Franchise to Women would regard it as a compliment.
GEOFFREY. (_His dislike of her is already in existence_.) Yes. Very
thoughtful.
ANNYS. You must choose some one else.
PHOEBE. But there _is_ no one else.
ANNYS. There’s mamma.
PHOEBE. Mamma’s too heavy.
ANNYS. Well, then, there’s Elizabeth—there’s you!
GEOFFREY. Yes. Why not you? You and I could have a jolly little fight.
LADY MOGTON. This is not a laughing matter. If I could think of any one
to take Annys’s place I should not insist. I cannot.
PHOEBE. You see, it mustn’t be a crank.
GEOFFREY. (_He is losing his temper_.) Yes, I suppose that does limit
you.
ELIZABETH. And then—thanks to you—Mrs. Chilvers has had such excellent
training in politics. It was that, I think, that decided us.
GEOFFREY. (_Convention forbids his strangling her_.) Will somebody
kindly introduce me to this lady?
ST. HERBERT. Ah, yes, of course. You don’t know each other, do you?
Mr. Geoffrey Chilvers—Mrs. Joseph Spender. Mrs. Spender—Mr. Chilvers,
M.P.
ELIZABETH. (_Sweetly_.) Delighted!
GEOFFREY. (_Not_.) Charmed.
LADY MOGTON. (_To_ ANNYS.) I am not indifferent to your difficulty.
But the history of woman, my dear Annys, is a history of sacrifice. We
give our sons—if necessary, our husbands.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. (_Affected_.) How true!
ANNYS. But you are not asking me to give him. You are asking me to
fight him. I can’t.
LADY MOGTON. You mean you won’t.
ANNYS. You can put it that way if you like. I won’t.
(_A pause_.)
JANET. I thought Mrs. Chilvers had pledged her word.
ELIZABETH. Yes. But without her husband’s consent. So, of course, it
doesn’t count.
GEOFFREY. (_He turns on her_.) Why not you—if there must be a fight?
Or would it be against your principles?
ELIZABETH. Not in the least.
GEOFFREY. Ah!
ELIZABETH. I would offer myself as a substitute. Only it might seem
like coming between husband and wife.
GEOFFREY. (_He turns away with a grunt of disgust_.)
PHOEBE. It’s awfully rough on you, Geoffrey. I can see it from your
point of view. But one can’t help remembering the things that you
yourself have said.
GEOFFREY. I know; I know. I’ve been going up and down the country,
excusing even your excesses on the ground that no movement can force its
way to the front without treading on innumerable toes. For me, now, to
cry halt merely because it happens to be my own toes that are in the way
would be—ridiculous—absurd—would be monstrous. (_Nobody contradicts
him_.) You are perfectly justified—if this case means what you say it
does—in putting up a candidate against me for East Poplar. Only,
naturally, it cannot be Annys. (_He reaches out his hand to where_ ANNYS
_stands a little behind him_, _takes her hand_.) Annys and I have fought
more than one election. It has been side by side.
ELIZABETH. The lady a little behind.
GEOFFREY. (_He moves away with an expression of deep annoyance_.)
JANET. (_She comes forward_. _She holds forth her hands with a
half-appealing_, _half-commanding gesture_. _She almost seems
inspired_.) Would it not be so much better if, in this first political
contest between man and woman, the opponents were two people honouring
one another, loving one another? Would it not show to all the world that
man and woman may meet—contend in public life without anger, without
scorn? (_There is a pause_. _They stand listening_.) I do not know,
but it seems to me that if Mr. Chilvers could bring himself to do this it
would be such a big thing—perhaps the most chivalrous thing that a man
has ever done to help women. If he would put aside, quite voluntarily,
all the man’s privilege—just say to the people, “Now choose—one of us two
to serve you. We stand before you, equal, my wife and I.” I don’t know
how to put it, but I feel that by merely doing that one thing Mr.
Chilvers would solve the whole problem. It would prove that good men are
ready to give us of their free accord all that we claim. We should gain
our rights, not by warfare, but through love and understanding. Wouldn’t
that be—so much better? (_She looks—her hands still appealing—from one
to the other_.)
(_Another silence_. _They have all been carried a little off their
feet by_ JANET’S _earnestness_.)
ANNYS. (_She touches him_.) What do you think, dear?
GEOFFREY. Yes, there’s a good deal, of course, in what Miss Blake says.
ANNYS. It _would_ be a big thing for you to do.
PHOEBE. You see, whatever happened, the seat would be yours. This case
only gives us the right to go to the poll. We are keen upon Annys
because she’s our best card, that’s all.
GEOFFREY. Do you wish it?
ANNYS. (_She smiles up at him_.) I’d rather fight you than any one
else.
GEOFFREY. You are not afraid that the situation might be—just a trifle
comical?
ANNYS. (_Shakes her head_.) No. I think everybody will say it was
rather splendid of you.
GEOFFREY. Well, if it will help women.
ANNYS. (_She holds out her hand_. _She is still in exalted mood_.) We
will show how man and woman may be drawn nearer to one another by rivalry
for noble ends.
ST. HERBERT. (_He shakes_ GEOFFREY’S _somewhat limp hand_.) I envy you.
The situation promises to be piquant.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. It will be a battle of roses.
LADY MOGTON. I must go. I shall see you both again to-morrow. (_She
kisses_ GEOFFREY.) This is an historic day.
GEOFFREY. Yes. I daresay we shall all remember it.
LADY MOGTON. (_To_ JANET.) I will get you to come to the station with
me. I can give you your instructions in the cab. (_She kisses_ ANNYS.)
You have been called to a great work. Be worthy of it.
(_They are all making ready to go_. ANNYS _has rung the bell for_
HAKE.)
JANET. (_To_ ANNYS.) Are you glad?
ANNYS. (_Kisses her_.) You showed me the whole thing in a new light.
You were splendid. (_She turns to_ ELIZABETH.) Didn’t I tell you he
would convert you?
ELIZABETH. I was wrong to judge all men guilty. There are also—the
innocent.
ANNYS. (_For a moment—but a moment only—she is pleased_. _Then the
doubtful meaning of_ ELIZABETH’S _words strikes her_.)
(_Enter_ HAKE.)
ANNYS. (_She has to dismiss_ ELIZABETH.) Oh, Hake—(_To_ LADY MOGTON.)
You’ll want a cab, won’t you, mamma?
LADY MOGTON. A taxi— Goodbye, everybody.
(_She sails out_.)
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. I have my carriage. (_To_ ELIZABETH.) Can I
give you a lift?
ELIZABETH. Thank you. (_To_ GEOFFREY.) We shall meet again.
GEOFFREY. I feel sure of it.
(MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS _and_ ELIZABETH _go out_.)
PHOEBE. (_To_ HAKE.) Are Miss Blake’s things dry yet?
JANET. They’ll be quite all right, dear. Please don’t trouble. (_She
advances a timid hand to_ GEOFFREY.) Goodbye, Mr. Chilvers.
GEOFFREY. (_He takes it smiling_.) Goodbye.
(_She goes out_; HAKE _follows_.)
PHOEBE. Goodbye, old boy. (_They shake hands_.) Don’t you let her walk
over you. Make her fight.
ANNYS. (_Laughing_.) Don’t you worry about that.
ST. HERBERT. Would you care to look through McCaw v. Potts? (_He has
the papers in his hand_.)
GEOFFREY. I’ll ask you for it when I want it.
PHOEBE. (_At door_.) You’ll be alone this evening?
ANNYS. Yes. Come in to dinner.
PHOEBE. All right. Goodbye.
ST. HERBERT. Goodbye.
(GEOFFREY _and_ ANNYS _answer them_. _They go out_, _closing the
door_. GEOFFREY _is by the fire_. ANNYS _comes to him_.)
ANNYS. (_She puts her arms round him_.) You don’t mind?
GEOFFREY. (_He holds her at arms’ length—looking into her eyes and
smiling_.) I believe you are looking forward to it.
ANNYS. Do you know how long we have been married? Eight years. And do
you know, sir, that all that time we have never had a difference? Don’t
you think it will be good for you?
GEOFFREY. Do you know _why_ we have never had a difference? Because you
have always had your own way.
ANNYS. Oh!
GEOFFREY. You have got so used to it, you don’t notice it.
ANNYS. Then it will be good for me. I must learn to suffer opposition.
(_She laughs_.)
GEOFFREY. You won’t like it.
ANNYS. Do you know, I’m not at all sure that I shan’t. (_Unconsciously
they let loose of one another_.) You see, I shall have the right of
hitting back. (_Again she laughs_.)
GEOFFREY. (_Also laughingly_.) Is woman going to develop the fighting
instinct?
ANNYS. I wonder.
(_A moment’s silence_.)
GEOFFREY. The difficulty in our case is there seems nothing to fight
about.
ANNYS. We must think of something. (_Laughs_.)
GEOFFREY. What line are you going to take—what is your argument: why
they should vote for you in preference to me?
ANNYS. Simply that I am a woman.
GEOFFREY. My dear child, that won’t be enough. Why should they vote for
you merely because you’re a woman?
ANNYS. (_Slightly astonished_.) Because—because women are wanted in
public life.
GEOFFREY. Who wants them?
ANNYS. (_More astonished_.) Who? Why—(_it doesn’t seem too clear_.)
Why, all of us—you, yourself!
GEOFFREY. I’m not East Poplar.
ANNYS. (_Is puzzled a moment_, _then valiantly_.) I shall ask them to
send me to Parliament to represent the interests of their women—and
therefore of themselves—the interests of their children.
GEOFFREY. Children! What do you know about children?
(_Another silence_.)
ANNYS. Personally—no. We have had no children of our own, of course.
But (_hopefully_) it is a woman’s instinct.
GEOFFREY. Oh, Lord! That’s what the lady said who had buried seven.
ANNYS. (_Her mouth is growing hard_.) Don’t you believe in the right of
women to share in the government of the country?
GEOFFREY. Some women. Yes. I can see some capable—
ANNYS. (_Winces_.)
GEOFFREY. —elderly, motherly woman who has brought up a dozen children
of her own—who knows the world, being of some real use.
ANNYS. If it comes to that, there must be—I don’t say more “capable,”
but more experienced, more fatherly men than yourself.
(_He turns_, _they look at one another_. _His tone almost touched
contempt—hers was veiled anger_.)
GEOFFREY. _That’s_ the danger. It may come to a real fight.
ANNYS. (_Upon her also the fear has fallen_.) It must not. (_She
flings her arms around him_.) We must show the world that man and woman
can meet—contend in public life without anger, without scorn.
GEOFFREY. (_He folds her to him_.) The very words sound ugly, don’t
they?
ANNYS. It would be hideous. (_She draws away_.) How long will the
election last?
GEOFFREY. Not long. The writ will be issued on Wednesday. Nomination
on Monday—polling, I expect, on Saturday. Puts me in mind—I must prepare
my election address.
ANNYS. I ought to be getting on with mine, too, I suppose.
GEOFFREY. It ought to be out by to-morrow.
ANNYS. (_With inspiration_.) We’ll do yours first. (_She wonders why
he hesitates_.)
GEOFFREY. “We?” Shan’t I have to do it alone—this time?
ANNYS. Alone! Nonsense! How can you?
GEOFFREY. I’m afraid I shall have to try.
ANNYS. Um! I suppose you’re right. What a nuisance! (_She turns
away_.) I shan’t like it.
GEOFFREY. (_He moves towards the folding-doors_.) No. It won’t be
quite the same thing. Goodbye.
ANNYS. (_She crosses to her desk by the window_. _Not the same instant
but the next his_ “_Goodbye_” _strikes her_. _She turns_.) You’re not
going out, are you?
GEOFFREY. (_He stops and turns—puzzled at her question_.) No. Only
into my study.
ANNYS. You said “Goodbye.”
GEOFFREY. (_Not remembering_.) _I_ did! Must have been thinking of
something else. I shall be in here if you want me. (_He goes into the
other room_.)
ANNYS. (_She has crossed to her desk_. _She is humming_. _She seats
herself_, _takes paper and pen_, _writes_. _Without turning—still
writing—she raises her voice_.) Geoffrey! How do you spell
“experimental”? One “r” or two?
(_There is no answer_. _Puzzled at the silence_, _she looks round_.
_The great folding-doors are closed_. _She stares in front of her_,
_thinking_, _then turns again to her work_.)
CURTAIN.
THE SECOND ACT
SCENE:—_Liberal Central Committee Rooms_, _East India Dock Road_,
_Poplar_. _A large_, _high room on the first floor of an old-fashioned
house_. _Two high windows right_. _A door at back is the main
entrance_. _A door left leads to other rooms_. _The walls are papered
with election literature_. _Conspicuous among the posters displayed is_
“_A Man for Men_.” “_No Petticoat Government_.” “_Will you be
Henpecked_?” _A large_, _round table centre is littered with papers and
pamphlets_. _A large desk stands between the windows_. _A settee is
against the left wall_.
(_When the curtain rises_, ROSE MERTON (_otherwise_ “GINGER”) _is
discovered seated_, _her left arm resting on the table_. _She is a young
lady typical of the Cockney slavey type_, _dressed according to the ideas
of her class as regards the perfect lady_. _Her hat is characteristic_.
_Her gloves_, _her reticule_, _her umbrella—the latter something rather_
“_saucy_”—_are displayed around her_. _She is feeling comfortable and
airing her views_. MRS. CHINN _is laying the cloth over a portion of the
table_, _with some tea-things_. MRS. CHINN _is a thin_, _narrow-chested
lady with thin hands and bony wrists_. _No one since her husband died
has ever seen her without her bonnet_. _Its appearance suggests the
possibility that she sleeps in it_. _It is black_, _like her dress_.
_The whole figure is decent_, _but dingy_.)
GINGER. Wot I say about the question is—
MRS. CHINN. Do you mind moving your arm?
GINGER. Beg pardon. (_She shifts_.) Wot I say is, why not give us the
vote and end all the talking?
MRS. CHINN. You think it would have that effect?
GINGER. Well! we don’t want to go on being a nuisance—longer than we can
possibly ’elp!
MRS. CHINN. Daresay you’re right. It’s about the time most people stop.
GINGER. You’ve never thought much about the question yourself, ’ave you,
Mrs. Chinn?
MRS. CHINN. I ain’t fretted much about it.
GINGER. Was a time when I didn’t. I used to be all for—you know—larking
about. I never thought much about anything.
MRS. CHINN. Ah! it’s a useful habit.
GINGER. What is?
MRS. CHINN. Thinking.
GINGER. It’s what we women ’aven’t done enough of—in the past, I mean.
All that’s going to be altered. In the future there’s going to be no
difference between men and women.
MRS. CHINN. (_Slowly_, _quietly she turns upon_ GINGER _her
expressionless eyes_.)
GINGER. Mentally, I mean, o’ course.
MRS. CHINN. (_Takes back her eyes_.)
GINGER. Do you know, Mrs. Chinn, that once upon a time there was only
one sex? (_She spreads herself_.) Hus!
MRS. CHINN. You ain’t thinking of going back to it, are you?
GINGER. Not if the men be’ave themselves.
MRS. CHINN. Perhaps they’re doing their best, poor things! It don’t do
to be too impatient with them.
GINGER. Was talking to old Dot-and-carry-one the other d’y. You know
who I mean—chap with the wooden leg as ’as ’is pitch outside the
“George.” “Wot do you wimmen want worrying yourselves about things
outside the ’ome?” ’e says to me. “You’ve got the children,” ’e says.
“Oh,” I says, “and whose fault’s that, I’d like to know? You wait till
we’ve got the vote,” I says, “we’ll soon show you—”
(SIGSBY _enters_. SIGSBY _is a dapper little man_, _very brisk and
bustling—hirsute—looks as if he wanted dusting_, _cleaning up
generally_.)
SIGSBY. That young blackguard come back yet?
GINGER. (_At sound of_ SIGSBY’S _voice she springs up_. _At first is
about to offer excuses for being found seated_, _but recollects
herself_.)
MRS. CHINN. Which one, sir?
SIGSBY. Young Jawbones—what’s he call himself?—Gordon.
MRS. CHINN. Not yet, sir.
SIGSBY. (_Grunts_.) My chop ready?
MRS. CHINN. I expect it’s about done. I’ll see.
(_She goes out_.)
SIGSBY. (_He turns to_ GINGER.) What can _I_ do for you?
GINGER. (_She produces a letter_.) I was to wait for an answer.
SIGSBY. (_He opens and reads it_.) What do they expect me to do?
GINGER. ’Er ladyship thought as perhaps you would consult Mr. Chilvers
’imself on the subject.
SIGSBY. Look here. What I want to know is this: am I being asked to
regard Lady Mogton as my opponent’s election agent, or as my principal’s
mother-in-law? That point’s got to be settled. (_His vehemence
deepens_.) Look at all these posters. Not to be used, for fear the
other side mayn’t like them. Now Lady Mogton writes me that my
candidate’s supporters are not to employ a certain argument she
disapproves of: because, if they do, she’ll tell his wife. Is this an
election, or is it a family jar?
(JAWBONES _enters_. JAWBONES—_otherwise_ WILLIAM GORDON—_is a
clean-shaven young hooligan_. _He wears a bicycle cap on the back of
his head_, _allowing a picturesque tuft of hair to fall over his
forehead_. _Evidently he is suffering from controlled indignation_.)
SIGSBY. (_Seeing him_.) Oh, so you’ve come back, have you?
JAWBONES. I ’ave, wot’s left of me.
SIGSBY. What have you been doing?
JAWBONES. Clinging to a roof for the last three hours.
SIGSBY. Clinging to a roof! What for?
JAWBONES. (_He boils over_.) Wot for? ’Cos I didn’t want to fall off!
Wot do you think: ’cos I was fond of it?
SIGSBY. I don’t understand—
JAWBONES. You find yourself ’alf way up a ladder, posting bills as the
other side ’as took objection to—with a crowd of girls from Pink’s jam
factory waiting for you at the bottom with a barrel of treacle, and you
_will_ understand. Nothing else for me to do, o’ course, but to go up.
Then they took the ladder away.
SIGSBY. Where are the bills?
JAWBONES. Last I see of them was their being put into a ’earse on its
way to Ilford Cemetery.
SIGSBY. This has got to be seen into. This sort of thing can’t be
allowed to go on. (_He snatches up his hat_.)
JAWBONES. There’s another suggestion I’d like to make.
SIGSBY. (_Pauses_.)
JAWBONES. That is, if this election is going to be fought fairly, that
our side should be provided with ’at-pins.
SIGSBY. (_Grunts_.) Tell Mrs. Chinn to keep that chop warm.
(_He goes out_.)
GINGER. (_She begins to giggle_. _It grows into a shrill hee-haw_.)
JAWBONES. (_He looks at her fixedly_.)
GINGER. (_Her laugh_, _under the stern eye of_ JAWBONES, _dies away_.)
JAWBONES. Ain’t no crowd of you ’ere, you know. Nothing but my inborn
chivalry to prevent my pulling your nose.
GINGER. (_Cowed_, _but simmering_.) Chivalry! (_A shrill snort_.)
JAWBONES. Yus. And don’t you put a strain upon it neither. Because I
tell you straight, it’s weakening.
GINGER. (_His sudden fierceness has completely cowed her_.)
JAWBONES. You wimmin—
(_There re-enters_ MRS. CHINN _with a tray_. _He is between them_.)
That’s old Sigsby’s chop?
MRS. CHINN. Yes. He hasn’t gone out again, has he?
JAWBONES. I’ll ’ave it. Get ’im another. Guess ’e won’t be back for
’alf an hour.
MRS. CHINN. He’s nasty when his food ain’t ready.
JAWBONES. (_He takes the tray from her_.) Not your fault. Tell ’im I
took it from you by brute force.
MRS. CHINN. (_She acquiesces with her usual even absence of all
emotion_.)
JAWBONES. You needn’t stop. Miss Rose Merton will do the waiting.
GINGER. (_Starts_, _then begins to collect her etceteras_.)
MRS. CHINN. Perhaps there’ll be time to cook him another.
(_She goes out_.)
JAWBONES. Take off that cover.
GINGER. (_She starts on a bolt for the door_.)
JAWBONES. (_He is quite prepared_. _In an instant he is in front of
her_.) No, yer don’t.
(_A pause_.)
Take off that cover.
GINGER. (_She still hesitates_.)
JAWBONES. If yer don’t do what I tell yer, I’ll ’ide yer. I’m in the
mood.
GINGER. (_She takes off the cover_.)
JAWBONES. (_He seats himself and falls to_.) Now pour me out a cup of
tea.
GINGER. (_Is pouring it out_.)
JAWBONES. Know why yer doing it?
GINGER. (_With shrill indignation_.) Yus. Becos yer got me ’ere alone,
yer beast, with only that cracked image of a Mrs. Chinn—
JAWBONES. That’ll do.
GINGER. (_It is sufficient_. _She stops_.)
JAWBONES. None of your insults agen a lady as I ’olds in ’igh respect.
The rest of it is all right. Becos I’ve got yer ’ere alone. You wimmin,
you think it’s going to pay you to chuck law and order. You’re out for a
fight, are yer?
GINGER. Yus, and we’re going to win. Brute force ’as ’ad its d’y. It’s
brains wot are going to rule the world. And we’ve got ’em.
(_She has become quite oratorical_.)
JAWBONES. Glad to ’ear it. Take my tip: you’ll use ’em. Meanwhile I’ll
’ave another cup o’ tea.
GINGER. (_She takes the cup—is making for the window_.)
JAWBONES. (_Fierce again_.) I said tea.
GINGER. All right, I was only going to throw the slops out of window.
There ain’t no basin.
JAWBONES. I’ll tell yer when I want yer to open the window and call for
the p’lice. You can throw them into the waste-paper basket.
GINGER. (_She obeys_.)
JAWBONES. Thank you. Very much obliged. One of these d’ys, maybe,
you’ll marry.
GINGER. When I do, it will be a man, not a monkey.
JAWBONES. I’m not proposing. I’m talking to you for your good.
GINGER. (_Snorts_.)
JAWBONES. You’ve been listening to a lot of toffs. Easy enough for them
to talk about wimmen not being domestic drudges. They keep a cook to do
it. They don’t pity ’e for being a down-trodden slive, spending sixteen
hours a d’y in _their_ kitchen with an evening out once a week. When you
marry it will be to a bloke like me, a working man . . .
GINGER. Working! (_She follows it with a shrill laugh_.)
JAWBONES. Yus. There’s always a class as laughs when you mention the
word “work.” Them as knows wot it is, don’t. I’ve been at it since six
o’clock this morning, carrying a ladder, a can of paste weighing twenty
pounds, and two ’undred double royal posters. You try it! When ’e comes
’ome, ’e’ll want ’is victuals. If you’ve got ’em ready for ’im and are
looking nice—no reason why you shouldn’t—and feeling amiable, you’ll get
on very well together. If you are going to argue with ’im about woman’s
sphere, you’ll get the worst of it.
GINGER. You always was a bully.
JAWBONES. Not always. Remember last Bank ’oliday? (_He winks_.)
GINGER. (_She tries not to give in_.)
JAWBONES. ’Ave a cup of tea. (_He pours it out for her_.)
GINGER. (_The natural woman steals in—she sits_.)
JAWBONES. ’Ow are they doing you, fairly well?
GINGER. Oh! Well, nothing to grumble at.
JAWBONES. You can do a bit o’ dressing on it.
GINGER. (_She meets his admiring eye_. _The suffragette departs_.)
Dressing don’t cost much—when you’ve got tyste.
JAWBONES. Wot! Not that ’at?
GINGER. Made it myself.
JAWBONES. No!
GINGER. Honour bright! Tell yer—
(GEOFFREY _and_ ST. HERBERT _enter_. JAWBONES _and_ GINGER _make to
rise_. GINGER _succeeds_.)
GEOFFREY. All right, all right. Don’t let me disturb the party.
Where’s Mr. Sigsby?
JAWBONES. Gone to look up the police, I think, sir. (_Having finished_,
_he rises_.) Some of those factory girls been up to their larks again.
GEOFFREY. Umph! What’s it about this time?
JAWBONES. They’ve took objection to one of our posters.
GEOFFREY. What, another! (_To_ ST. HERBERT.) Woman has disappointed me
as a fighter. She’s willing enough to strike. If you hit back, she’s
surprised and grieved.
ST. HERBERT. She’s come to the game rather late.
GEOFFREY. She might have learned the rules. (_To_ JAWBONES.) Which
particular one is it that has failed to meet with their approval?
JAWBONES. It’s rather a good one, sir, from our point of view: “Why she
left her ’appy ’ome.”
GEOFFREY. I don’t seem to remember it. Have I seen it?
JAWBONES. I don’t think you ’ave, sir. It was Mr. Sigsby’s idea. On
the left, the ruined ’ome, baby crying it’s little ’eart out—eldest child
lying on the floor, scalded—upset the tea-kettle over itself—youngest boy
in flames—been playing with the matches, nobody there to stop ’im. At
the open door the father, returning from work. Nothing ready for ’im.
On the other side—’_er_, on a tub, spouting politics.
GEOFFREY. (_To_ ST. HERBERT.) Sounds rather good.
JAWBONES. Wait a minute. There was a copy somewhere about—a proof.
(_He is searching for it on the desk—finds it_.) Yus, ’ere ’tis. (_To_
GINGER.) Catch ’old.
(JAWBONES _and_ GINGER _hold it displayed_.)
That’s the one, sir.
ST. HERBERT. Why is the working man, for pictorial purposes, always a
carpenter?
GINGER. It’s the skirt we object to.
GEOFFREY. The skirt! What’s wrong with the skirt?
GINGER. Well, it’s only been out of fashion for the last three years,
that’s all.
GEOFFREY. Oh! I see. (_To_ ST. HERBERT.) We’ve been hitting them
below the belt. What do you think I ought to do about it?
ST. HERBERT. What would you have thought yourself, three weeks ago?
GEOFFREY. You and I have been friends ever since we were boys. You
rather like me, don’t you?
ST. HERBERT. (_Puzzled_.) Yes.
GEOFFREY. If I were to suddenly hit you on the nose, what would happen?
ST. HERBERT. I understand. Woman has suddenly started hitting man on
the nose. Her excuse being that she really couldn’t keep her hands off
him any longer.
JAWBONES. (_He has pinned the poster to the wall_.) They begun it. To
’ear them talk, you’d think as man had never done anything right.
GEOFFREY. He’s quite right. Their posters are on every hoarding: “Who’s
made all the Muddles? Man!” “Men’s Promises! Why, it’s all Froth!”
“Woman this Time!” I suppose it will have to go.
JAWBONES. (_Hopefully_.) Up, sir?
GEOFFREY. No, Jawbones. Into the dust-heap with the rest.
(JAWBONES _is disgusted_. GINGER _is triumphant_.)
GEOFFREY. I must talk to Sigsby. He’s taking the whole thing too
seriously. It will be some time before we reach that stage. (_To_
JAWBONES.) Ask Mrs. Chinn to bring me a cup of tea.
(JAWBONES _goes out_.)
(_He seats himself at table and takes up some correspondence_. _To_
GINGER.) Are you waiting for any one?
GINGER. A letter from her ladyship. (_She picks up from the desk and
hands him the letter_ SIGSBY _had thrown there_.) Her ladyship thought
you ought to be consulted.
GEOFFREY. (_He reads the short letter with a gathering frown—hands it
across to_ ST. HERBERT.)
ST. HERBERT. (_Having read_, _he passes it back in silence_.)
GEOFFREY. (_To_ GINGER.) Do you know the contents of this letter?
GINGER. The matter has been discussed among us—informally.
GEOFFREY. Tell Lady Mogton I’ll—talk to her myself on the subject.
GINGER. Thank you. (_She collects her etceteras_.) Good afternoon.
GEOFFREY. (_Shortly_.) Good afternoon.
GINGER. (_She bows graciously to_ ST. HERBERT, _who responds_. _Goes
out_.)
GEOFFREY. The devil of it is that it’s the truth.
ST. HERBERT. Somebody was bound to say it, sooner or later!
GEOFFREY. Yes, but one’s own wife! This is a confoundedly awkward
situation.
ST. HERBERT. (_He comes to him_, _stands looking down at him_.) Did it
never occur to you, when you were advocating equal political rights for
women, that awkward situations might arise?
GEOFFREY. (_He leans back in his chair_.) Do you remember Tommy the
Terrier, as they used to call him in the House—was always preaching
Socialism?
ST. HERBERT. Quite the most amusing man I ever met!
GEOFFREY. And not afraid of being honest. Do you remember his answer
when somebody asked him what he would do if Socialism, by any chance,
really became established in England? He had just married an American
heiress. He said he should emigrate. I am still convinced that woman is
entitled to equal political rights with man. I didn’t think it was
coming in my time. There are points in the problem remaining to be
settled before we can arrive at a working solution. This is one of them.
(_He takes up the letter and reads_.) “Are you prepared to have as your
representative a person who for six months out of every year may be
incapacitated from serving you?” It’s easy enough to say I oughtn’t to
allow my supporters to drag in the personal element. I like it even less
myself. But what’s the answer?
(JAWBONES _enters with a tray_.)
JAWBONES. (_Places tray on table_.) Tea’s coming in a minute, sir.
(_He is clearing away_.)
GEOFFREY. Never mind all that. (_He hands him a slip_.) Take this to
the printers. Tell them I must have a proof to-night.
JAWBONES. Yes, sir.
(_Finds his cap and goes out_.)
ST. HERBERT. The answer, I should say, would be that the majority of
women will continue to find something better to do. The women who will
throw themselves into politics will be the unattached women, the
childless women. (_In an instant he sees his mistake_, _but it is too
late_.)
GEOFFREY. (_He rises_, _crosses to the desk_, _throws into a
waste-paper-basket a piece of crumpled paper that was in his hand_; _then
turns_. _The personal note has entered into the discussion_.) The women
who _want_ to be childless—what about them?
ST. HERBERT. (_He shrugs his shoulders_.) Are there any such?
GEOFFREY. There are women who talk openly of woman’s share in the
general scheme being a “burden” on her—an “incubus.”
ST. HERBERT. A handful of cranks. To the normal woman motherhood has
always been the one supreme desire.
GEOFFREY. Because children crowned her with honour. The barren woman
was despised. All that is changing. This movement is adding impulse to
it.
ST. HERBERT. Movements do not alter instincts.
GEOFFREY. But they do. Ever since man emerged from the jungle he has
been shedding his instincts—shaping them to new desires. Where do you
find this all-prevailing instinct towards maternity? Among the women of
society, who sacrifice it without a moment’s hesitation to their
vanity—to their mere pleasures? The middle-class woman—she, too, is
demanding “freedom.” Children, servants, the home!—they are too much for
her “nerves.” And now there comes this new development, appealing to the
intellectual woman. Is there not danger of her preferring political
ambition, the excitement of public life, to what has come to be regarded
as the “drudgery” of turning four walls into a home, of peopling the
silence with the voices of the children? (_He crosses to the table—lays
his hand again upon the open letter_.) How do you know that this may not
be her answer—“I have no children. I never mean to have children”?
(SIGSBY _enters in company with_ BEN LAMB, M.P. LAMB _is a short_,
_thick-set_, _good-tempered man_.)
Ah, Lamb, how are you?
LAMB. (_They greet one another_.) How are things going?
SIGSBY. They’re not going at all well.
GEOFFREY. Sigsby was ever the child of despondency.
SIGSBY. Yes, and so will you be when you find yourself at the bottom of
the poll.
GEOFFREY. (_The notion takes him by surprise_.)
LAMB. It’s going to be a closer affair than any of us thought. It’s the
joke of the thing that appears to have got hold of them. They want to
see what will happen.
GEOFFREY. Man’s fatal curiosity concerning the eternal feminine!
SIGSBY. Yes, and they won’t have to pay for it. That will be our
department.
ST. HERBERT. (_To_ SIGSBY.) What do you think they’ll do, supposing by
any chance Mrs. Chilvers should head the poll?
SIGSBY. How do you mean—“what’ll they do?”
ST. HERBERT. Do you think they’ll claim the seat?
SIGSBY. Claim the seat! What do you think they’re out for—their health?
Get another six months’ advertisement, if they don’t get anything else.
Meanwhile what’s our position—just at the beginning of our ministerial
career?
GEOFFREY. They will not claim the seat.
SIGSBY. How do you know?
GEOFFREY. I know my wife.
LAMB. (_After a moment’s silence_.) Quite sure you do?
GEOFFREY. (_Turns_.)
LAMB. Ever seen a sheep fighting mad? I have. Damned sight worse than
the old ram.
GEOFFREY. She doesn’t fight the ram.
LAMB. (_He makes a sweeping movement that takes in the room_, _the
election—all things_.) What’s all this? We thought woman hadn’t got the
fighting instinct—that we “knew her.” My boy, we’re in the infants’
class.
SIGSBY. If you want to be his Majesty’s Under-Secretary for Home
Affairs, you take my tip, guv’nor, you’ll win this election.
GEOFFREY. What more can I do than I’m doing? How can I countenance this
sort of thing? (_He indicates the posters_.) Declare myself dead
against the whole movement?
LAMB. You’ll do it later. May as well do it soon.
GEOFFREY. Why must I do it?
LAMB. Because you’re beginning to find out what it means.
(_A pause_. _The door is open_. ANNYS _is standing there_.)
ANNYS. Dare we venture into the enemy’s camp?
(_She enters_, _laughing_, _followed by_ ELIZABETH _and_ PHOEBE. ANNYS
is somewhat changed _from the grave_, _dreamy_ ANNYS _of a short week
ago_. _She is brimming over with vitality—excitement_. _There is a
decisiveness_, _an egoism_, _about her that seems new to her_. _The
women’s skirts make a flutter_. _A breeze seems to have entered_.
ANNYS _runs to her husband_. _For the moment the election fades away_.
_They are all smiles_, _tenderness for one another_.)
ANNYS. Don’t tell, will you? Mamma would be so shocked. Do you know
you haven’t been near me for three days?
GEOFFREY. Umph! I like that. Where were you last night?
ANNYS. Last night? In the neighbourhood of Leicester Square till three
o’clock. Oh, Geoff, there’s such a lot wants altering!
(_She turns to greet the others_.)
GEOFFREY. Your ruining your health won’t do it. You’re looking fagged
to death.
ANNYS. (_She shakes hands with_ SIGSBY.) How are you? (_To_ LAMB.)
I’m so glad you’re helping him. (_She turns again to_ GEOFFREY.) Pure
imagination, dearest. I never felt better in my life.
GEOFFREY. Umph! Look at all those lines underneath your eyes. (_He
shakes hands with_ ELIZABETH.) How do you do? (_To_ PHOEBE.) How are
you?
ANNYS. (_She comes back to him—makes to smooth the lines from his
forehead_.) Look at all those, there. We’ll run away together for a
holiday, when it’s all over. What are you doing this evening?
SIGSBY. You promised to speak at a Smoker to-night; the Bow and Bromley
Buffaloes.
ANNYS. Oh, bother the Buffaloes. Take me out to dinner. I am free
after seven.
(MRS. CHINN _has entered—is arranging the table for tea_. ANNYS _goes
to her_.)
How are you, Mrs. Chinn?
MRS. CHINN. (_She wipes her hand on her apron before taking_ ANNYS’S
_proffered hand_.)
GEOFFREY. (_To_ SIGSBY.) I can turn up there later in the evening.
(_He joins the others for a moment—talks with them_.)
MRS. CHINN. (_Now shaking hands_.) Quite well, thank you, ma’am. (_She
has cast a keen_, _motherly glance at_ ANNYS.) I hope you’re taking care
of yourself, ma’am.
ANNYS. Of course I am. We Politicians owe it to our Party. (_Laughs_.)
How are they getting on here, without me?
MRS. CHINN. Well, ma’am, from what I can see, I think Mr. Chilvers is
trusting a little too much to his merits. Shall I bring some more cups
and saucers, sir?
GEOFFREY. Ah! yes! (_To_ ANNYS.) You’ll have some tea?
ANNYS. Strong, please, Mrs. Chinn.
(MRS. CHINN _goes out_.)
(_Laughs_.) Yes, I know it’s bad for me. (_She puts a hand over his
mouth_.)
PHOEBE. Old Mother Chinn is quite right, you know, Geoff. You’re not
putting up a good fight.
GEOFFREY. (_A slight irritability begins to show itself_.) I frankly
confess that I am not used to fighting women.
ELIZABETH. Yes. It was easier, no doubt, when we took it lying down.
ANNYS. You promised, if I brought you, that you would be good.
GEOFFREY. I wish it had been you.
PHOEBE. Yes, but we don’t!
(_As she and_ ELIZABETH _move away_.)
Did you have a row with the doctor when you were born?
(_To which_ ELIZABETH _replies_, _though the words reach only_ PHOEBE:
“_I might have_, _if I had known that my mother was doing all the
work_, _while he was pocketing the fee_!”)
LAMB. You see, Mrs. Chilvers, our difficulty is that there is nothing to
be said against you—except one thing.
ANNYS. What’s that?
LAMB. That you’re a woman.
ANNYS. (_Smiling_.) Isn’t that enough?
SIGSBY. Quite enough, Mrs. Chilvers, if the guv’nor would only say it.
ANNYS. (_To_ GEOFFREY.) Why don’t you? I’ll promise not to deny it.
(_The others drift apart_. _They group themselves near to the window_.
_They talk together—grow evidently interested and excited_.)
GEOFFREY. I have just had a letter from your—Election Agent, expressing
indignation with one of my supporters for merely having hinted at the
fact.
ANNYS. I don’t understand.
GEOFFREY. (_He takes from the table the letter and hands it to her in
silence_. _He seats himself on the settee and watches her_.)
ANNYS. (_She seats herself on a chair just opposite to him_; _reads the
letter through in silence_.) In my case it does not apply.
GEOFFREY. How do you know?
ANNYS. (_The atmosphere has grown suddenly oppressive_.) Oh, I—I think
we might find some other reason than that. (_She hands him back the
letter_.)
GEOFFREY. It’s the only one of any importance. It embraces all the
others. Shall woman be mother—or politician? (_He puts the letter in
his pocket_.)
ANNYS. Why cannot she be both?
GEOFFREY. (_He is looking at her searchingly_.) Because if she is the
one, she doesn’t want to be the other.
(_A silence_.)
ANNYS. You are wrong. It is the mother instinct that makes us
politicians. We want to take care of the world.
GEOFFREY. Exactly. You think man’s job more interesting than your own.
ANNYS. (_After a moment_.) Who told you that it was a man’s job?
GEOFFREY. Well. (_He shrugs his shoulders_.) We can’t do yours.
ANNYS. Can’t we help each other?
GEOFFREY. As, for instance, in this election! (_He gives a short
laugh_.)
ANNYS. Of course, this is an exceptional case.
GEOFFREY. It’s an epitome of the whole question. You are trying to take
my job away from me. To the neglect of your own.
ANNYS. (_After another moment’s silence_.) Haven’t I always tried to do
my duty?
GEOFFREY. I have thought so.
ANNYS. Oh, my dear, we mustn’t quarrel. You will win this election. I
want you to win it. Next time we must fight side by side again.
GEOFFREY. Don’t you see? Fighting you means fighting the whole
movement. (_He indicates the posters pinned to the walls_.) That sort
of thing.
ANNYS. (_After a brief inspection_.) Not that way. (_Shaking her
head_.) It would break my heart for you to turn against us. Win because
you are the better man. (_Smiling_.) I want you to be the better man.
GEOFFREY. I would rather be your husband.
ANNYS. (_Smiling_.) Isn’t that the same thing?
GEOFFREY. No. I want a wife.
ANNYS. What precisely do you mean by “wife”?
GEOFFREY. It’s an old-established word.
(MRS. CHINN _has entered to complete the tea arrangements_. _She is
arranging the table_.)
MRS. CHINN. There’s a deputation downstairs, sir, just come for you.
GEOFFREY. What are they?
MRS. CHINN. It’s one of those societies for the reform of something.
They said you were expecting them.
SIGSBY. (_Breaking away from the group by the window_.) Quite right.
(_Looks at his watch_.) Five o’clock, I’ll bring them up.
GEOFFREY. Happen to know what it is they want to reform?
SIGSBY. (_By door_.) Laws relating to the physical relationship between
the sexes, I think.
GEOFFREY. Oh, only that!
SIGSBY. Something of the sort.
(_He goes out_. MRS. CHINN _also by the other door_.)
GEOFFREY. (_Rising_.) Will you pour out?
ANNYS. (_She has been thinking_. _She comes back to the present_.) We
shan’t be in your way?
GEOFFREY. Oh, no. It will make it easier to get rid of them.
(ANNYS _changes her chair_. _The others gather round_. _The service
and drinking of tea proceeds in the usual course_.)
(_To_ ELIZABETH.) You’ll take some tea?
ELIZABETH. Thank you.
GEOFFREY. You must be enjoying yourself just now.
ELIZABETH. (_Makes a moue_.) They insist on my being agreeable.
ANNYS. It’s so good for her. Teaches her self-control.
LAMB. I gather from Mrs. Spender, that in the perfect world there will
be no men at all.
ELIZABETH. Oh, yes, they will be there. But in their proper place.
ST. HERBERT. That’s why you didn’t notice them.
(_The_ DEPUTATION _reaches the door_. _The sound of voices is heard_.)
PHOEBE. She’s getting on very well. If she isn’t careful, she’ll end up
by being a flirt.
(_The_ DEPUTATION _enters_, _guided by_ SIGSBY. _Its number is five_,
_two men and three women_. _Eventually they group themselves—some
standing_, _some sitting—each side of_ GEOFFREY. _The others gather
round_ ANNYS, _who keeps her seat at the opposite side of the table_.)
SIGSBY. (_Talking as he enters_.) Exactly what I’ve always maintained.
HOPPER. It would make the husband quite an interesting person.
SIGSBY. (_Cheerfully_.) That’s the idea. Here we are, guv’nor. This
is Mr. Chilvers.
(GEOFFREY _bows_, _the_ DEPUTATION _also_. SIGSBY _introduces a
remarkably boyish-looking man_, _dressed in knickerbockers_.)
SIGSBY. This is Mr. Peekin, who has kindly consented to act as
spokesman. (_To the_ DEPUTATION, _generally_.) Will you have some tea?
MISS BORLASSE. (_A thick-set_, _masculine-featured lady_, _with short
hair and heavy eyebrows_. _Her deep_, _decisive tone settles the
question_.) Thank you. We have so little time.
MR. PEEKIN. We propose, Mr. Chilvers, to come to the point at once.
(_He is all smiles_, _caressing gestures_.)
GEOFFREY. Excellent.
PEEKIN. If I left a baby at your door, what would you do with it?
GEOFFREY. (_For a moment he is taken aback_, _recovers himself_.) Are
you thinking of doing so?
PEEKIN. It’s not impossible.
GEOFFREY. Well, it sounds perhaps inhospitable, but do you know I really
think I should ask you to take it away again.
PEEKIN. Yes, but by the time you find it there, I shall have
disappeared—skedaddled.
HOPPER. Good. (_He rubs his hands_. _Smiles at the others_.)
GEOFFREY. In that case I warn you that I shall hand it over to the
police.
PEEKIN. (_He turns to the others_.) I don’t myself see what else Mr.
Chilvers could be expected to do.
MISS BORLASSE. He’d be a fool not to.
GEOFFREY. Thank you. So far we seem to be in agreement. And now may I
ask to what all this is leading?
PEEKIN. (_He changes from the debonnair to the dramatic_.) How many
men, Mr. Chilvers, leave their babies every year at the door of
poverty-stricken women? What are they expected to do with them?
(_A moment_. _The_ DEPUTATION _murmur approval_.)
GEOFFREY. I see. But is there no difference between the two doors? I
am not an accomplice.
PEEKIN. An accomplice! Is the ignorant servant-girl—first lured into
the public-house, cajoled, tricked, deceived by false promises—the
half-starved shop-girl in the hands of the practised libertine—is she an
accomplice?
MRS. PEEKIN. (_A dowdily-dressed_, _untidy woman_, _but the face is
sweet and tender_.) Ah, Mr. Chilvers, if you could only hear the stories
that I have heard from dying lips.
GEOFFREY. Very pitiful, my dear lady. And, alas, only too old. But
there are others. It would not be fair to blame always the man.
ANNYS. (_Unnoticed_, _drawn by the subject_, _she has risen and come
down_.) Perhaps not. But the punishment always falls on the woman. Is
_that_ quite fair?
GEOFFREY. (_He is irritated at_ ANNYS’S _incursion into the
discussion_.) My dear Annys, that is Nature’s law, not man’s. All man
can do is to mitigate it.
PEEKIN. That is all we ask. The suffering, the shame, must always be
the woman’s. Surely that is sufficient.
GEOFFREY. What do you propose?
MISS BORLASSE. (_In her deep_, _fierce tones_.) That all children born
out of wedlock should be a charge upon the rates.
MISS RICKETTS. (_A slight_, _fair_, _middle-aged woman_, _with a nervous
hesitating manner_.) Of course, only if the mother wishes it.
GEOFFREY. (_The proposal staggers him_. _But the next moment it
inspires him with mingled anger and amusement_.) My dear, good people,
have you stopped for one moment to consider what the result of your
proposal would be?
PEEKIN. For one thing, Mr. Chilvers, the adding to the populace of
healthy children in place of the stunted and diseased abortions that is
all that these poor women, out of their scanty earnings, can afford to
present to the State.
GEOFFREY. Humph! That incidentally it would undermine the whole
institution of marriage, let loose the flood-gates that at present hold
immorality in check, doesn’t appear to trouble you. That the law must be
altered to press less heavily upon the woman—that the man must be made an
equal sharer in the penalty—all that goes without saying. The remedy you
propose would be a thousand times worse than the disease.
ANNYS. And meanwhile? Until you have devised this scheme (_there is a
note of contempt in her voice_) under which escape for the man will be
impossible?
GEOFFREY. The evil must continue. As other evils have to until the true
remedy is found.
PEEKIN. (_He has hurriedly consulted with the others_. _All have
risen—he turns to_ GEOFFREY.) You will not support our demand?
GEOFFREY. Support it! Do you mean that you cannot yourselves see that
you are holding out an indemnity to every profligate, male and female,
throughout the land—that you would be handicapping, in the struggle for
existence, every honest man and woman desirous of bringing up their
children in honour and in love? Your suggestion is monstrous!
PEEKIN. (_The little man is not without his dignity_.) We apologise,
Mr. Chilvers, for having taken up your time.
GEOFFREY. I am sorry the matter was one offering so little chance of
agreement.
PEEKIN. We will make only one slight further trespass on your kindness.
Mrs. Chilvers, if one may judge, would seem to be more in sympathy with
our views. Might we—it would be a saving of time and shoe leather (_he
smiles_)—might we take this opportunity of laying our case before her?
GEOFFREY. It would be useless.
(_A short silence_. ANNYS, _with_ ELIZABETH _and_ PHOEBE _a little
behind her_, _stands right_. LAMB, SIGSBY, _and_ ST. HERBERT _are
behind_ GEOFFREY _centre_. _The_ DEPUTATION _is left_.)
HOPPER. Do we gather that in this election you speak for both
candidates?
GEOFFREY. In matters of common decency, yes. My wife does not associate
herself with movements for the encouragement of vice.
(_There is another moment’s silence_.)
ANNYS. But, Geoffrey, dear—we should not be encouraging the evil. We
should still seek to find the man, to punish him. The woman would still
suffer—
GEOFFREY. My dear Annys, this is neither the time nor place for you and
me to argue out the matter. I must ask you to trust to my judgment.
ANNYS. I can understand your refusing, but why do you object to my—
GEOFFREY. Because I do not choose for my wife’s name to be linked with a
movement that I regard as criminal. I forbid it.
(_It was the moment that was bound to come_. _The man’s instincts_,
_training_, _have involuntarily asserted themselves_. _Shall the woman
yield_? _If so_, _then down goes the whole movement—her claim to
freedom of judgment_, _of action_, _in all things_. _All watch the
struggle with breathless interest_.)
ANNYS. (_She speaks very slowly_, _very quietly_, _but with a new note
in her voice_.) I am sorry, but I have given much thought to this
matter, and—I do not agree with you.
MRS. PEEKIN. You will help us?
ANNYS. I will do what I can.
PEEKIN. (_He takes from his pocket a folded paper_.) It is always so
much more satisfactory when these things are in writing. Candidates,
with the best intentions in the world, are apt to forget. (_He has
spread the paper on a corner of the table_. _He has in his hand his
fountain-pen_.)
ANNYS. (_With a smile_.) I am not likely to forget, but if you wish
it—(_She approaches the table_.)
GEOFFREY. (_He interposes_. _His voice is very low_, _almost a
whisper_.) My wife will not sign.
ANNYS. (_She also speaks low_, _but there is no yielding in her voice_.)
I am not only your wife. I have a duty also to others.
GEOFFREY. It is for you to choose. (_He leaves the way open to her_.)
(_The silence can almost be felt_. _She moves to the table_, _takes up
the paper_. _It contains but a few lines of writing_. _Having read
it_, _she holds out her hand for the pen_. PEEKIN _puts it in her
hand_. _With a firm hand she signs_, _folds the paper_, _and returns
it to him_. _She remains standing by the table_. _With the removal of
the tension there comes a rustle_, _a breaking of the silence_.)
MISS RICKETTS. (_She seizes_ ANNYS’S _hand_, _hanging listlessly by her
side_, _and_, _stooping_, _kisses it_.)
MISS BORLASSE. That is all, isn’t it?
PEEKIN. We thank you, Mrs. Chilvers. Good afternoon.
ANNYS. (_The natural reaction is asserting itself_. _She pulls herself
together sufficiently to murmur her answer_.) Good afternoon.
MRS. PEEKIN. (_The_ DEPUTATION _is moving away_; _she takes from her
waist a small bunch of flowers_, _and_, _turning_, _places them in_
ANNYS’S _hand_.)
ANNYS. (_She smiles_, _remains standing silent_, _the flowers in her
hand_.)
(“_Good afternoons_” _are exchanged with some of the others_.
_Finally_:)
PEEKIN. Good afternoon, Mr. Chilvers.
GEOFFREY. (_Who has moved away_.) Good afternoon.
(_The_ DEPUTATION _joins_ SIGSBY _by the door_. _He leads them out_.)
ELIZABETH. (_To_ PHOEBE.) Are you going my way?
PHOEBE. (_She glances round at_ ANNYS.) Yes, I’ll come with you.
ST. HERBERT. I will put you into a bus, if you will let me. We don’t
sport many cabs in East Poplar. (_He is helping_ ELIZABETH _with her
cloak_.)
ELIZABETH. Thank you.
LAMB. I’ve got to go up West. (_To_ GEOFFREY.) Will you be at the
House this evening?
GEOFFREY. (_He is standing by the desk pretending to look at some
papers_.) I shall look in about ten o’clock.
LAMB. One or two things I want to say to you. Goodbye for the present.
GEOFFREY. Goodbye!
PHOEBE. Goodbye, old man. (_She stretches out her hand_.)
GEOFFREY. Goodbye. (_She shakes hands with a smile_, _exchanges a
casual_ “_goodbye_” _with_ ELIZABETH.)
(_They go towards the door_.)
(SIGSBY _re-enters_.)
SIGSBY. (_To_ LAMB.) Are you going?
LAMB. Yes. I’ll see you to-morrow morning. About ten o’clock.
SIGSBY. I shall be here. (_He exchanges a_ “_good afternoon_” _with the
others_.)
(_They go out_. SIGSBY _crosses and goes into the other room_.)
ANNYS. (_She has let fall the flowers on the table_. _She crosses to
where_ GEOFFREY _still stands by the desk_, _his back towards her_. _She
stretches out her hand_, _touches him_. _He does not move_.) Geoffrey!
(_But still he takes no notice_.)
I am so sorry. We must talk it over quietly—at home.
GEOFFREY. (_He turns_.) Home! I have no home. I have neither children
nor wife. I _keep_ a political opponent.
(ANNYS _starts back with a cry_. _He crosses in front of her and seats
himself at the table_. _The flowers are lying there_; _he throws them
into the waste-paper basket_.)
ANNYS. (_She puts on her cloak_, _moves towards the door_. _Half-way
she pauses_, _makes a movement towards him_. _But he will not see_.
_Then a hard look comes into her eyes_, _and without another word she
goes out_, _leaving the door open_.)
(SIGSBY _is heard moving in the other room_.)
GEOFFREY. (_He is writing_.) Sigsby.
SIGSBY. Hallo!
GEOFFREY. That poster I told young Gordon I wouldn’t sanction, “The
Woman spouting politics, the Man returning to a slattern’s home.”
(SIGSBY _enters_.)
SIGSBY. I have countermanded them.
GEOFFREY. Countermand them again. We shall want a thousand.
SIGSBY. (_Can hardly believe his ears_.)
GEOFFREY. (_With a gesture round the room_.) All of them. “A Man for
Men!” “Save the Children!” “Guard your Homes!” All the damned
collection. Order as many as you want.
SIGSBY. (_His excitement rising_.) I can go ahead. You mean it?
GEOFFREY. (_He looks at him_.) It’s got to be a fight! (_A moment_.
_He returns to his writing_.) Telephone Hake that I shall be dining at
the Reform Club.
CURTAIN.
THE THIRD ACT
SCENE:—_A room in the Town Hall_, _Poplar_. _A high_, _bare_, _cold
room_, _unfurnished except for cane-bottomed chairs ranged against the
walls_. _French windows right give on to a balcony overlooking the
street_. _Door in back opens upon a stone passage_. _A larger door
opens into another room_, _through which one passes to reach the room in
which the counting of the votes is taking place_. _A fire burns_—_or
rather tries to burn_. _The room is lighted from the centre of the
ceiling by an electric sun_. _A row of hat-pegs is on the wall between
the two doors_. _The time is about_ 9 _p.m._
(_People entering from the street wear coats or cloaks_, _&c._, _the
season being early spring_. _If passing through or staying in the room_,
_they take off their outdoor things and hang them up_, _putting them on
again before going out_.)
(JAWBONES _is coaxing the reluctant fire by using a newspaper as a
blower_. _He curses steadily under his breath_. _The door opens_.
GINGER _enters_; _she is dressed in cheap furs_.)
JAWBONES. Shut the door, can’t yer!
GINGER. Don’t yer want a draught?
JAWBONES. No, I don’t. Not any more than I’ve got.
GINGER. (_She shuts the door_.) ’Ave they begun counting the votes?
JAWBONES. Been at it for the last three-quarters of an hour.
GINGER. Who’s going to win?
JAWBONES. One of ’em.
(LADY MOGTON _has entered_. _She has come from the room where they are
counting the votes_.)
Shut that door! (_He glances over his shoulder_, _sees his mistake_.)
Beg pardon! (_To himself_.) Thought ’twas the other fool!
LADY MOGTON. (_She shuts the door_. _To_ GINGER.) Have you seen Mrs.
Chilvers?
GINGER. Not since the afternoon, your ladyship.
LADY MOGTON. She is coming, I suppose?
GINGER. I think so, your ladyship.
LADY MOGTON. It’s very cold in here, Gordon.
JAWBONES. Yes, my lady. Not what I call a cosy room.
LADY MOGTON. (_To_ GINGER.) Jump into a cab. See if you can find her.
Perhaps she has been detained at one of the committee-rooms. Tell her
she ought to be here.
GINGER. Yes, your ladyship. (_She crosses_, _opens door_.)
JAWBONES. Shut the door.
GINGER. Oh, shut—
(_She finds herself face to face with a_ MESSENGER _carrying a
ballot-box_.)
I beg yer pardon! (_She goes out_, _closes door_.)
LADY MOGTON. (_To the_ MESSENGER.) Is that the last?
MESSENGER. Generally is. Isle of Dogs!
(_He goes into the other room_.)
LADY MOGTON. (_To_ JAWBONES.) Do you know where Mr. Chilvers is?
(_There comes a bloodthirsty yell from the crowd outside_.)
JAWBONES. Not unless that’s ’im. (_He finishes for the time being with
the fire_. _Rises_.)
(JANET _enters_.)
LADY MOGTON. Was that you they were yelling at?
JANET. No, it’s Mr. Sigsby.
(_Another yell is heard_. _Out of it a shrill female voice_—“_Mind ’is
fice_; _yer spoiling it_!”)
The Woman’s Laundry Union have taken such a strong dislike to him.
(_A final yell_. _Then a voice_: “_That’s taken some of the starch out
of him_!” _followed by a shriek of laughter_.)
JAWBONES. ’E only suggested as ’ow there was enough old washerwomen in
Parliament as it was.
LADY MOGTON. A most unnecessary remark. It will teach him—
(SIGSBY _enters_, _damaged_. _His appearance is comic_. LADY MOGTON
_makes no effort to repress a grim smile_.)
SIGSBY. Funny, ain’t it?
LADY MOGTON. I am sorry.
SIGSBY. (_He snarls_.) “The Mother’s Hand shall Help Us!” One of your
posters, I think.
LADY MOGTON. You shouldn’t have insulted them—calling them old
washerwomen!
SIGSBY. Insult! Can’t one indulge in a harmless _jeu d’esprit_—(_he
pronounces it according to his own ideas_)—without having one’s clothes
torn off one’s back? (_Fiercely_.) What do you mean by it—disgracing
your sex?
LADY MOGTON. Are you addressing me?
SIGSBY. All of you. Upsetting the foundations upon which society has
been reared—the natural and lawful subjection of the woman to the man.
Why don’t you read St. Paul?
LADY MOGTON. St. Paul was addressing Christians. When men behave like
Christians there will be no need of Votes for Women. You read St. Paul
on men. (_To_ JANET.) I shall want you!
(_She goes out_, _followed by_ JANET.)
(SIGSBY _gives vent to a gesture_.)
JAWBONES. Getting saucy, ain’t they?
SIGSBY. Over-indulgence. That’s what the modern woman is suffering
from. Gets an idea on Monday that she’d like the whole world altered; if
it isn’t done by Saturday, raises hell! Where’s the guv’nor?
JAWBONES. Hasn’t been here.
SIGSBY. (_Hands_ JAWBONES _his damaged hat_.) See if they can do
anything to that. If not, get me a new one. (_He forks out a
sovereign_.) Sure to be some shops open in the High Street.
(LAMB _and_ ST. HERBERT _enter_.)
LAMB. Hallo! have they been mauling you?
SIGSBY. (_He snatches the damaged hat from_ JAWBONES, _to hand it back
the next moment_; _holds it out_.) Woman’s contribution to politics.
Get me a collar at the same time—sixteen and a half.
(JAWBONES _takes his cap and goes out_. _The men hang up their
overcoats_.)
SIGSBY. Where’s it all going to end? That’s what I want to know!
ST. HERBERT. Where most things end. In the millennium, according to its
advocates. In the ruin of the country, according to its opponents. In
mild surprise on the part of the next generation that ever there was any
fuss about it.
SIGSBY. In amazement, you mean, that their fathers were so blind as not
to see where it was leading. My boy, this is going to alter the whole
relationship between the sexes!
ST. HERBERT. Is it so perfect as it is?
(_A silence_.)
Might it not be established on a more workable, a more enduring basis if
woman were allowed a share in the shaping of it?
(_Some woman in the crowd starts the refrain_, “_We’ll hang old Asquith
on a sour apple tree_.” _It is taken up with quiet earnestness by
others_.)
SIGSBY. Shaping it! Nice sort of shape it will be by the time that lot
(_with a gesture_, _including the crowd_, LADY MOGTON & CO.) have done
knocking it about. Wouldn’t be any next generation to be surprised at
anything if some of them had their way.
ST. HERBERT. The housebreakers come first—not a class of work demanding
much intelligence; the builders come later. Have you seen Chilvers?
LAMB. I left him at the House. He couldn’t get away.
SIGSBY. There’s your object-lesson for you. We don’t need to go far. A
man’s whole career ruined by the wife he nourishes.
ST. HERBERT. How do you mean, “ruined?”
SIGSBY. So it is. If she wins the election and claims the seat. Do you
think the Cabinet will want him? Their latest addition compelled to
appeal to the House of Commons to fight for him against his own
womenfolk. (_Grunts_.) He’ll be the laughing-stock of the whole
country.
ST. HERBERT. Do you know for certain that they mean to claim the seat?
SIGSBY. “Wait and see” is their answer.
LAMB. Hasn’t Chilvers any idea?
SIGSBY. Can’t get him to talk. Don’t think he’s seen her since that
shindy over the Deputation.
LAMB. Humph!
SIGSBY. Even if she herself wished to draw back, the others would
overrule her.
LAMB. I’m not so sure of that. She’s got a way of shutting her mouth
that reminds me of my old woman.
SIGSBY. The arrangement, as he explained it to me, was that the whole
thing was to end with the polling. It was to have been a mere joke, a
mere _ballon d’essai_. The mistake he made was thinking he could depend
on her.
LAMB. Guess she made the same mistake. You can fight and shake hands
afterwards; it doesn’t go with kissing.
SIGSBY. Man and woman were not made to fight. It was never intended.
(_The woman’s_ “_Marseillaise_” _has been taken up by the crowd_. _The
chorus has been reached_.)
Oh, damn your row! (_He slams to the window_; _it was ajar_.)
(JAWBONES _has entered_, _with his purchases_.)
(_Turning from window he sees_ JAWBONES, _goes to meet him_.) Couldn’t
they do anything?
JAWBONES. (_He has bought a new hat_; _has also brought back the
remains_. _He shakes his head_.) No good for anything else but a
memento.
SIGSBY. (_With a grunt he snatches the thing and flings it into a
corner_. _Tries on the new one_.)
JAWBONES. ’Ow’s it feel?
(SIGSBY, _with the help of_ JAWBONES, _attends to his appearance_.)
LAMB. (_To_ ST. HERBERT.) No use talking to her, I suppose?
ST. HERBERT. (_Shrugs his shoulders_.) She’ll do what she imagines to
be her duty. Women are so uncivilised.
(_A burst of cheering is heard_. _A shrill male voice_: “_Three cheers
for Winston Churchill_!” _It is followed by an explosion of yells_.)
ST. HERBERT. Who’s that?
LAMB. (_He has opened the window_.) Phoebe Mogton!
SIGSBY. What a family!
(JANET _has entered_.)
JANET. Is that Mrs. Chilvers? (_To_ LAMB _and_ ST. HERBERT.) Good
evening.
ST. HERBERT. Good evening.
LAMB. No; it’s her sister.
JANET. I wonder she doesn’t come.
SIGSBY. What are the latest figures? Do you know?
(PHOEBE _enters_.)
JANET. I forget the numbers. Mrs. Chilvers is forty ahead.
PHOEBE. Forty ahead! (_To_ JANET.) Did you order the band?
LAMB. (_To_ SIGSBY.) The Dock division was against him to a man; that
Shipping Bill has upset them.
JANET. No. I didn’t think we should want the band.
PHOEBE. Not want it! My dear girl—
JANET. Perhaps Lady Mogton has ordered it, I’ll ask her.
(_She goes out_.)
SIGSBY. Hadn’t you better “Wait and see”? It isn’t over yet.
PHOEBE. We may as well have it! It can play the Dead March in “Saul” if
you win. (_She laughs_.)
SIGSBY. (_Grunts_. _To_ LAMB.) Are you coming?
(_He goes out_.)
LAMB. Yes. (_To_ ST. HERBERT.) Are you coming?
ST. HERBERT. Hardly worth while; nearly over, isn’t it?
LAMB. It generally takes an hour and a half. (_He looks at his watch_.)
Another forty minutes. Perhaps less.
(_He goes out_.)
PHOEBE. I do love to make him ratty. Wish it wasn’t poor old Geoff we
were fighting.
ST. HERBERT. When I marry, it will be the womanly woman.
PHOEBE. No chance for me then?
ST. HERBERT. I don’t say that. I can see you taking your political
opinions from your husband, and thinking them your own.
PHOEBE. Good heavens!
ST. HERBERT. The brainy woman will think for herself. And then I
foresee some lively breakfast tables.
PHOEBE. Humph! No fear, I suppose, of a man taking his views from his
wife and thinking them his own?
ST. HERBERT. That may be the solution. The brainy woman will have to
marry the manly man.
(GINGER _enters_.)
JAWBONES. (_He is on his knees blowing the fire_. _In a low growl_.)
Shut the door!
GINGER. Can’t till I’m inside, can I? (_Shuts it_.) Where’s Lady
Mogton?
JAWBONES. I don’t know.
PHOEBE. What do you want her for?
GINGER. Only to tell her that I can’t find Chilvers.
PHOEBE. Isn’t she here?
GINGER. Not unless she’s come while I’ve been out.
(JANET _enters_.)
JANET. Oh, Lady Mogton—
PHOEBE. (_Interrupting her_.) Isn’t Annys here?
JANET. No. (_To_ GINGER.) Haven’t you found her?
GINGER. (_Shakes her head_.) Been everywhere I could think of.
PHOEBE. (_To herself_.) She couldn’t have gone home? Is there a
telephone here?
JANET. The room’s locked up.
JAWBONES. There’s one at 118, High Street. Shall I go, miss?
PHOEBE. No, thanks. I’ll go myself. Oh, what about the band?
JANET. Lady Mogton says she’d like it. If it isn’t too tired.
GINGER. It’s at Sell’s Coffee-’ouse in Piggott Street. I ’eard them
practising.
PHOEBE. Good. I shan’t be more than a few minutes.
ST. HERBERT. I’ll come with you, if I may? I’ve got some news that may
be of use to you.
PHOEBE. Do. (_To_ GINGER.) Stop here, I may want you.
(PHOEBE _and_ ST. HERBERT _go out_.)
JANET. How was Mrs. Chilvers seeming this afternoon?
GINGER. Never ’eard ’er speak better, miss.
JANET. Did you stop to the end?
GINGER. Not quite. Mrs. Spender wanted some shopping done.
(JANET _goes out_.)
GINGER. Can I ’elp yer?
JAWBONES. Yer might hold the piper while I blow.
(_The fire begins to burn_.)
GINGER. It’s getting brighter.
JAWBONES. That’s caught it.
GINGER. Wonderful what a little coaxing will do.
JAWBONES. (_He is still squatting on his heels_, _folding up the paper_.
_He looks up_.) Ain’t yer ever thought of that, instead of worrying
about the vote?
GINGER. (_She moves away_.) You don’t understand us wimmin.
JAWBONES. (_He has risen_. _He pauses in his folding of the paper_.)
Don’t say that.
GINGER. Why should we coax yer—for our rights?
JAWBONES. Because it’s the easiest way of getting ’em.
GINGER. (_She has become oratorical_.) Our appeal is not to man (_with
upraised hand_) but to Justice!
JAWBONES. Oh! And what does the lidy say?
GINGER. (_Descending_.) ’Ow do yer mean?
JAWBONES. To your appeal. Is she goin’ to give ’em to yer? You tike my
tip: if yer in a ’urry, you get a bit on account—from Man. ’Ere. (_He
dives into his pocket_, _produces_, _wrapped up in tissue paper_, _a
ring_, _which he exhibits to her_.) That’s a bit more in your line.
GINGER. (_Her eyes sparkle_. _She takes the ring in her hand_. _Then
problems come to her_.) Why do yer want me, William?
JAWBONES. Because, in spite of all, I love yer.
GINGER. (_She looks into the future_.) What will I be? A general
servant, without wages.
JAWBONES. The question, as it seems to me, is, which of us two is the
biggest fool? Instead of thirty bob a week in my pocket to spend as I
like—guess I’ll ’ave to be content with three ’alf-crowns.
GINGER. Seven an’ six! Rather a lot, Bill, out o’ thirty bob. Don’t
leave much for me an’ the children.
JAWBONES. I shall ’ave to get my dinners.
GINGER. I could mike yer somethin’ tasty to tike with yer. Then with,
say—three shillings—
JAWBONES. ’Ere—(_He is on the point of snatching back the ring_. _He
encounters her eyes_. _There is a moment’s battle_. _The Eternal
Feminine conquers_.) Will yer always look as sweet as yer do now?
GINGER. Always, Bill. So long as yer good to me!
(_She slips the ring over her finger_, _still with her eyes drawing
him_. _He catches her to him in fierce passion_, _kisses her_.)
(_A loud shrill female cheer comes from the crowd_. _The cheer is
renewed and renewed_.)
JAWBONES. (_He breaks away and goes to the window_.) ’Ullo! What are
they shoutin’ about now? (_He looks out_.) It’s the Donah!
GINGER. Mrs. Chilvers?
JAWBONES. Yus. Better not get wearin’ it—may shock their feelings.
GINGER. (_She gazes rapturously at the ring as she draws it off_.) It
is a beauty! I do love yer, Bill.
(_There enter_ ANNYS _and_ ELIZABETH. ANNYS _is excited_; _she is
laughing and talking_.)
ANNYS. (_Laughing while she rearranges her hat and hair_.) A little
embarrassing. That red-haired girl—she carried me right up the steps. I
was afraid she would—
(JAWBONES _has been quick enough to swing a chair into place just in
time to receive her_.)
(_She recovers herself_.) Thank you.
ELIZABETH. (_She hands_ ANNYS _a smelling-bottle_. _To_ JAWBONES.)
Open the window a few inches.
(_He does so_. _Some woman_, _much interrupted_, _is making a
speech_.)
(JANET _opens the door a little way and looks in_.)
JANET. Oh, it is you! I am glad!
(_She goes out again_.)
ELIZABETH. Are the others all here?
GINGER. ’Er ladyship is watching the counting. Miss Phoebe ’as just
gone out—
(PHOEBE _enters_.)
Oh, ’ere she is.
PHOEBE. Hullo! (_She is taking off her things_.) Wherever have you
been? We’ve been scouring the neighbourhood—
(LADY MOGTON _enters_, _followed by_ JANET.)
I say, you’re looking jolly chippy.
ELIZABETH. We had an extra enthusiastic meeting. She spoke for rather a
long time. I made her come home with me and lie down. I think she is
all right now.
LADY MOGTON. Would you like to see a doctor?
PHOEBE. There is a very good man close here. (_She turns to_ JAWBONES,
_who is still near the window_.) Gordon—
ANNYS. (_Interrupting_.) No. Please don’t. I am quite all right. I
hate strange doctors.
PHOEBE. Well, let me send for Whitby; he could be here in twenty
minutes.
ANNYS. I wish you would all leave me alone. There’s absolutely nothing
to fuss about whatever. We pampered women—we can’t breathe the same air
that ordinary mortals have to. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves.
PHOEBE. (_To herself_.) Obstinate pig.
(_She catches_ JAWBONES’ _eye_; _unnoticed by the others_, _she takes
him aside_. _They whisper_.)
ANNYS. How is it going?
LADY MOGTON. You must be prepared for winning. (_She puts again the
question that_ ANNYS _has frequently been asked to answer during the last
few days_.) What are you going to do?
(MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS _enters_, _as usual in a flutter of
excitement_.)
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. Am I late?
(_They brush her back into silence_. ELIZABETH _takes charge of her_.)
ANNYS. (_She has risen_.) You think it wise tactics, to make it
impossible for Geoffrey to be anything else in the future but our enemy?
LADY MOGTON. (_Contemptuously_.) You are thinking of him, and not of
the cause.
ANNYS. And if I were! Haven’t I made sacrifice enough?—more than any of
you will ever know. Ay—and would make more, if I felt it was demanded of
me. I don’t! (_Her burst of anger is finished_. _She turns_,
_smiling_.) I’m much more cunning than you think. There will be other
elections we shall want to fight. With the Under-Secretary for Home
Affairs in sympathy with us, the Government will find it difficult to
interfere. Don’t you see how clever I am?
(JAWBONES, _having received his instructions from_ PHOEBE, _has slipped
out unobserved_. _He has beckoned to_ GINGER; _she has followed him_.
PHOEBE _has joined the group_.)
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. There’s something in that.
JANET. Is Mr. Chilvers still in sympathy with us?
PHOEBE. Of course he is. A bit rubbed up the wrong way just at present;
that’s our fault. When Annys goes down, early next mouth, to fight the
Exchange Division of Manchester, we shall have him with us.
(_A moment_.)
LADY MOGTON. Where do you get that from?
PHOEBE. From St. Herbert. The present member is his cousin. They say
he can’t live more than a week.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. It really seems like Providence.
ANNYS. (_Has taken the opportunity of giving_ PHOEBE _a grateful squeeze
of the hand_.)
LADY MOGTON. You will fight Manchester?
ANNYS. Yes. (_Laughs_.) And make myself a public nuisance if I win.
LADY MOGTON. Well, must be content with that, I suppose. Better not
come in; the room’s rather crowded. I’ll keep you informed how things
are going.
(_She goes out_, _followed by_ JANET.)
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. I’ll stay with you, dear.
PHOEBE. I want you to come and be photographed for the Daily Mirror.
The man’s waiting downstairs.
ELIZABETH. I’ll stop with Annys.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. I’m not quite sure, you know, that I take well
by flashlight.
PHOEBE. You wait till you’ve seen mamma! We must have you. They want
you for the centre of the page.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. Well, if it’s really—
PHOEBE. (_To the others_.) Shall see you again. (_She winks_. _Then
to_ MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS.) We mustn’t keep them waiting. They are
giving us a whole page.
(PHOEBE _takes_ MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS _out_. ELIZABETH _has followed
to the door_; _she closes it_. ANNYS _has reseated herself_, _facing
the fire_.)
ELIZABETH. When did you see your husband last?
ANNYS. Not since—Tuesday, wasn’t it, that we went round to his rooms.
Why?
ELIZABETH. I’m thinking about Manchester. What was it he said to you?
ANNYS. Oh, we were, both of us, a little over-excited, I suppose. He
has—(_she hesitates_, _finally answers_)—he has always been so eager for
children.
ELIZABETH. Yes. So many men are; not having to bear the pain and
inconvenience themselves.
ANNYS. Oh, well, they have to provide for them when they do come.
That’s fair enough division, I su— (_Suddenly she turns fiercely_.) Why
do you talk like that? As if we women were cowards. Do you think if God
sent me a child I should grudge Him the price!
ELIZABETH. Do you want Him to?
ANNYS. I don’t know; prayed Him to, once.
ELIZABETH. (_She lays her hand upon her_.) It isn’t a few more mothers
that the world has need of. It is the women whom God has appointed—to
whom He has given freedom, that they may champion the cause of the
mothers, helpless by reason of their motherhood.
(_A moment_. GEOFFREY _enters_.)
GEOFFREY. Good evening.
ANNYS. (_Rises_; _a smile struggles for possession_. _But he only
shakes hands_, _and it dies away_.)
ELIZABETH. Good evening.
(_They shake hands_.)
GEOFFREY. You are not interested in the counting?
ANNYS. The room is rather crowded. Mamma thought I would be better out
here. How have you been?
GEOFFREY. Oh, all right. It’s going to be a very near thing, they tell
me.
ANNYS. Yes, I shall be glad when it’s over.
GEOFFREY. It’s always a trying time. What are you going to do, if you
win?
(LADY MOGTON _looks in_.)
LADY MOGTON. (_Seeing_ GEOFFREY.) Oh, good evening.
GEOFFREY. Good evening.
LADY MOGTON. Chilvers, 2,960—Annys Chilvers, 2,874.
(_She disappears—closes door_.)
ANNYS. Perhaps I’m not going to win. (_She goes to him_, _smiling_.) I
hope you’ll win. I would so much rather you won.
GEOFFREY. Very kind of you. I’m afraid that won’t make it a certainty.
ANNYS. (_His answer has hardened her again_.) How can I? It would not
be fair. Without your consent I should never have entered upon it. It
was understood that the seat, in any case, would be yours.
GEOFFREY. I would rather you considered yourself quite free. In warfare
it doesn’t pay to be “fair” to one’s enemy.
ANNYS. (_Still hardening_.) Besides, there is no need. There will be
other opportunities. I can contest some other constituency. If I win,
claim the seat for that.
(_A moment_.)
GEOFFREY. So this is only the beginning? You have decided to devote
yourself to a political career?
ANNYS. Why not?
GEOFFREY. If I were to ask you to abandon it, to come back to your place
at my side—helping me, strengthening me?
ANNYS. You mean you would have me abandon my own task—merge myself in
you?
GEOFFREY. Be my wife.
ANNYS. It would not be right. I, too, have my work.
GEOFFREY. If it takes you away from me?
ANNYS. Why need it take me away from you? Why cannot we work together
for common ends, each in our own way?
GEOFFREY. We talked like that before we tried it. Marriage is not a
partnership; it is a leadership.
ANNYS. (_She looks at him_.) You mean—an ownership.
GEOFFREY. Perhaps you’re right. I didn’t make it. I’m only—beginning
to understand it.
ANNYS. And I too. It is not what I want.
GEOFFREY. You mean its duties have become irksome to you.
ANNYS. I mean I want to be the judge myself of what are my duties.
GEOFFREY. I no longer count. You will go your way without me?
ANNYS. I must go the way I think right.
GEOFFREY. (_He flings away_.) If you win to-night you will do well to
make the most of it. Take my advice and claim the seat.
ANNYS. (_Looks at him puzzled_.)
ELIZABETH. Why?
GEOFFREY. Because (_with a short_, _ugly laugh_) the Lord only knows
when you’ll get another opportunity.
ELIZABETH. You are going to stop us?
GEOFFREY. To stop women from going to the poll. The Bill will be
introduced on Monday. Carried through all its stages the same week.
ELIZABETH. You think it will pass?
GEOFFREY. The Whips assure me that it will.
ANNYS. But they cannot, they dare not, without your assent. The— (_The
light breaks in upon her_.) Who is bringing it in?
GEOFFREY. I am.
ANNYS. (_Is going to speak_.)
GEOFFREY. (_He stops her_.) Oh, I’m prepared for all that—ridicule,
abuse. “Chilvers’s Bill for the Better Regulation of Mrs. Chilvers,”
they’ll call it. I can hear their laughter. Yours won’t be among it.
ANNYS. But, Geoffrey! What is the meaning? Merely to spite me, are you
going to betray a cause that you have professed belief in—that you have
fought for?
GEOFFREY. Yes—if it is going to take you away from me. I want you. No,
I don’t want a friend—“a fellow-worker”—some interesting rival in well
doing. I can get all that outside my home. I want a wife. I want the
woman I love to belong to me—to be mine. I am not troubling about being
up to date; I’m talking what I feel—what every male creature must have
felt since the protoplasmic cell developed instincts. I want a woman to
love—a woman to work for—a woman to fight for—a woman to be a slave to.
But mine—mine, and nothing else. All the rest (_he makes a gesture_) is
talk.
(_He closes the window_, _shutting out the hubbub of the crowd_.)
ANNYS. (_A strange_, _new light has stolen in_. _She is bewildered_,
_groping_.) But—all this is new between us. You have not talked like
this for—not since— We were just good friends—comrades.
GEOFFREY. And might have remained so, God knows! I suppose we’re made
like that. So long as there was no danger passion slept. I cannot
explain it. I only know that now, beside the thought of losing you, all
else in the world seems meaningless. The Woman’s Movement! (_He makes a
gesture of contempt_.) Men have wrecked kingdoms for a woman before
now—and will again. I want you! (_He comes to her_.) Won’t you come
back to me, that we may build up the home we used to dream of? Wasn’t
the old love good? What has this new love to give you? Work that man
can do better. The cause of the women—the children! Has woman loved
woman better than man? Will the world be better for the children, man
and woman contending? Come back to me. Help me. Help me to fight for
all good women. Teach me how I may make the world better—for our
children.
ANNYS. (_The light is in her eyes_. _She stands a moment_. _Her hands
are going out to him_.)
ELIZABETH. (_She comes between them_.) Yes, go to him. He will be very
good to you. Good men are kind to women, kind even to their dogs. You
will be among the pampered few! You will be happy. And the others!
What does it matter?
(_They draw apart_. _She stands between them_, _the incarnation of the
spirit of sex war_.)
The women that have not kind owners—the dogs that have not kind
masters—the dumb women, chained to their endless, unpaid drudgery! Let
them be content. What are they but man’s chattel? To be honoured if it
pleases him, or to be cast into the dust. Man’s pauper! Bound by his
laws, subject to his whim; her every hope, her every aspiration, owed to
his charity. She toils for him without ceasing: it should be her
“pleasure.” She bears him children, when he chooses to desire them.
They are his to do as he will by. Why seek to change it? Our man is
kind. What have they to do with us: the women beaten, driven,
overtasked—the women without hope or joy, the livers of grey lives that
men may laugh and spend—the women degraded lower than the beasts to
pander to the beast in man—the women outraged and abandoned, bearing to
the grave the burden of man’s lust? Let them go their way. They are but
our sisters of sorrow. And we who could help them—we to whom God has
given the weapons: the brain, and the courage—we make answer: “I have
married a husband, and I cannot come.”
(_A silence_.)
GEOFFREY. Well, you have heard. (_He makes a gesture_.) What is your
answer?
ANNYS. (_She comes to him_.) Don’t you love me enough to humour me a
little—to put up with my vexing ways? I so want to help, to feel I am
doing just a little, to make the world kinder. I know you can do it
better, but I want so to be “in it.” (_She laughs_.) Let us forget all
this. Wake up to-morrow morning with fresh hearts. You will be Member
for East Poplar. And then you shall help me to win Manchester. (_She
puts her hands upon his breast_: _she would have him take her in his
arms_.) I am not strong enough to fight alone.
GEOFFREY. I want you. Let Manchester find some one else.
ANNYS. (_She draws away from him_.) And if I cannot—will not?
GEOFFREY. I bring in my Bill on Monday. We’ll be quite frank about it.
That is my price—you. I want you!
ANNYS. You mean it comes to that: a whole cause dependent on a man and a
woman!
GEOFFREY. Yes, that is how the world is built. On each man and woman.
“How does it shape my life, my hopes?” So will each make answer.
(LADY MOGTON _enters_. _She stands silent_.)
ELIZABETH. Is it over?
LADY MOGTON. Annys Chilvers, 3,604—Geoffrey Chilvers, 3,590.
(JANET _enters_.)
JANET. (_She rushes to_ ANNYS, _embraces her_.) You’ve won, you’ve won!
(_She flies to the window_, _opens it_, _and goes out on to the
balcony_.)
(PHOEBE _enters_, _followed by_ MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS.)
PHOEBE. Is it true?
LADY MOGTON. Pretty close. Majority of 14.
MRS. MOUNTCALM-VILLIERS. For us?
LADY MOGTON. For us.
(JANET _by this time has announced the figures_. _There is heard a
great burst of cheering_, _renewed again and again_.)
JANET. (_Re-entering_.) They want you! They want you!
(_Mingled with the cheering come cries of_ “_Speech_! _Speech_!”)
LADY MOGTON. You must say something.
(_The band strikes up_ “_The Conquering Hero_.” _The women crowd
round_ ANNYS, _congratulating her_. GEOFFREY _stands apart_.)
PHOEBE. (_Screaming above the din_.) Put on your cloak.
JANET. (_Rushes and gets it_.)
(_They wrap it round her_.)
(ANNYS _goes out on to the balcony_, _followed by the other women_.
ELIZABETH, _going last_, _fires a parting smile of triumph at_
GEOFFREY.)
(_A renewed burst of cheering announces their arrival on the balcony_.
_The crowd bursts into_ “_For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow_”—_the band_,
_making a quick change_, _joins in_. GEOFFREY _remains centre_.)
(JAWBONES _enters unobserved_. _The singing ends with three cheers_.
ANNYS _is speaking_. GEOFFREY _turns and sees_ JAWBONES.)
GEOFFREY. (_With a smile_.) Give me down my coat, will you?
JAWBONES. (_He is sympathetic_. _He helps him on with it_.) Shall I
get you a cab, sir?
GEOFFREY. No, thanks. I’ll pick one up. (_He goes towards the door_,
_then stops_.) Is there any other way out—not through the main entrance?
JAWBONES. Yes, sir. There’s a side door opening on Woodstock Road.
I’ll show it you.
GEOFFREY. Thanks. (_He follows_ JAWBONES _out_.)
(_A burst of cheering comes from the crowd_.)
CURTAIN.
THE FOURTH ACT
SCENE:—_Russell Square_. _The morning-room_ (_on the ground floor_). _A
small_, _cheerful room_, _furnished in Chippendale_, _white panelled_,
_with Adams fireplace in which a bright fire is burning_. _Two deep
easy-chairs are before the fire_. _The window-curtains of red damask are
drawn_. _An oval table occupies the centre of the room_. _The door at
back opens upon the hall_. _Only one light burns_, _an electric lamp on
a table just above the fire_.
TIME:—_Midnight_.
(_The door opens_. GEOFFREY _enters_. _He has left his out-door things
in the hall_. _He crosses and rings the bell_. _A moment_.)
(HAKE _enters_.)
GEOFFREY. Oh, you, Hake! There wasn’t any need for you to have stopped.
HAKE. I was not sure of your arrangements. I thought perhaps I might be
wanted.
GEOFFREY. Sorry. I ought to have told you.
HAKE. It’s been no inconvenience, sir. I told Mrs. Hake not to sit up.
GEOFFREY. (_He is opening and reading his letters left for him on the
table_.) Does she generally sit up for you?
HAKE. As a rule, sir. We like a little chat before going to bed.
GEOFFREY. (_His eyes on a letter_.) What do you find to chat about?
HAKE. Oh, there is so much for a husband and wife to talk about. The—
As a rule.
(_A clock on the mantelpiece strikes one_.)
GEOFFREY. What’s that?
HAKE. Quarter past twelve, sir.
GEOFFREY. Has your mistress come in?
HAKE. Not yet, sir. Has the election gone all right, sir?
GEOFFREY. For Mrs. Chilvers, yes. She is now member for East Poplar.
HAKE. I am sorry. It has been a great surprise to me.
GEOFFREY. The result?
HAKE. The whole thing, sir. Such a sweet lady, we all thought her.
GEOFFREY. Life, Hake, is a surprising affair.
(_A ring is heard_.)
I expect that’s she. She has forgotten her key.
(HAKE _goes out_.)
(GEOFFREY _continues his letters_. _A few moments pass_; HAKE
_re-enters_, _closes the door_.)
HAKE. (_He seems puzzled_.) It’s a lady, sir
(GEOFFREY _turns_.)
HAKE. At least—hardly a lady. A Mrs. Chinn.
GEOFFREY. Mrs. Chinn! (_He glances at his watch_.) At twelve o’clock
at night. Well, all right. I’ll see her.
(HAKE _opens the door_, _speaks to_ MRS. CHINN. _She enters_, _in
bonnet and shawl_.)
HAKE. Mrs. Chinn.
GEOFFREY. Good evening, Mrs. Chinn.
MRS. CHINN. Good evening, sir.
GEOFFREY. You needn’t stop, Hake. I shan’t be wanting anything.
HAKE. Thank you.
GEOFFREY. Apologise for me to Mrs. Hake. Good-night.
HAKE. Good-night, sir.
(HAKE _goes out_. _A minute later the front door is heard to slam_.)
GEOFFREY. Won’t you sit down? (_He puts a chair for her left of the
table_.)
MRS. CHINN. (_Seating herself_.) Thank you, sir.
GEOFFREY. (_He half sits on the arm of the easy-chair below the fire_.)
What’s the trouble?
MRS. CHINN. It’s my boy, sir—my youngest. He’s been taking money that
didn’t belong to him.
GEOFFREY. Um. Has it been going on for long?
MRS. CHINN. About six months, sir. I only heard of it to-night. You
see, his wife died a year ago. She was such a good manager. And after
she was gone he seems to have got into debt.
GEOFFREY. What were his wages?
MRS. CHINN. Nineteen shillings a week, sir. And that with the rent and
three young children—well, it wants thinking out.
GEOFFREY. From whom did he take the money—his employers?
MRS. CHINN. Yes, sir. He was the carman. They had always trusted him
to collect the accounts.
GEOFFREY. How much, would you say, was the defalcation?
MRS. CHINN. I beg pardon, sir.
GEOFFREY. How much does it amount to, the sums that he has taken?
MRS. CHINN. Six pounds, sir, Mr. Cohen says it comes to.
GEOFFREY. Won’t they accept repayment?
MRS. CHINN. Yes, sir. Mr. Cohen has been very nice about it. He is
going to let me pay it off by instalments.
GEOFFREY. Well, then, that gets over most of the trouble.
MRS. CHINN. Well, you see, sir, unfortunately, Mr. Cohen gave
information to the police the moment he discovered it.
GEOFFREY. Umph! Can’t he say he made a mistake?
MRS. CHINN. They say it must go for trial, sir. That he can only
withdraw the charge in court.
GEOFFREY. Um!
MRS. CHINN. You see, sir—a thing like that—(_She recovers herself_.) It
clings to a lad.
GEOFFREY. What do you want me to do?
MRS. CHINN. Well, sir, I thought that, perhaps—you see, sir, he has got
a brother in Canada who would help him; and I thought that if I could
ship him off—
GEOFFREY. You want me to tip the wink to the police to look the other
way while you smuggle this young malefactor out of the clutches of the
law?
MRS. CHINN. (_Quite indifferent to the moral aspect of the case_.) If
you would be so kind, sir.
GEOFFREY. Umph! I suppose you know what you’re doing; appealing through
your womanhood to man’s weakness—employing “backstairs influence” to gain
your private ends, indifferent to the higher issues of the public weal?
All the things that are going to cease when woman has the vote.
MRS. CHINN. You see, sir, he’s the youngest.
(_Gradually the decent but dingy figure of_ MRS. CHINN _has taken to
itself new shape_. _To_ GEOFFREY, _it almost seems as though there
were growing out of the shadows over against him the figure of great
Artemis herself—Artemis of the Thousand Breasts_. _He had returned
home angry_, _bitter against all women_. _As she unfolds her simple
tale understanding comes to him_. _So long as there are_ “_Mrs.
Chinns_” _in the world_, _Woman claims homage_.)
GEOFFREY. How many were there?
MRS. CHINN. Ten altogether, six living.
GEOFFREY. Been a bit of a struggle for you, hasn’t it?
MRS. CHINN. It has been a bit difficult, at times; especially after
their poor father died.
GEOFFREY. How many were you left with?
MRS. CHINN. Eight, sir.
GEOFFREY. How on earth did you manage to keep them?
MRS. CHINN. Well, you see, sir, the two eldest, they were earning a
little. I don’t think I could have done it without that.
GEOFFREY. Wasn’t there any source from which you could have obtained
help? What was your husband?
MRS. CHINN. He worked in the shipyards, sir. There was some talk about
it. But, of course, that always means taking the children away from you.
GEOFFREY. Would not that have been better for them?
MRS. CHINN. Not always, sir. Of course, if I hadn’t been able to do my
duty by them I should have had to. But, thank God, I’ve always been
strong.
GEOFFREY. (_He rises_.) I will see what can be done.
MRS. CHINN. Thank you, sir.
GEOFFREY. (_Half-way_, _he turns_.) When does the next boat sail—for
Canada?
MRS. CHINN. To-morrow night, sir, from Glasgow. I have booked his
passage.
GEOFFREY. (_With a smile_.) You seem to have taken everything for
granted.
MRS. CHINN. You see, sir, it’s the disgrace. All the others are doing
so well. It would upset them so.
(_He goes out_.)
(_There is a moment_.)
(ANNYS _enters_. _She is wearing her outdoor things_.)
ANNYS. Mrs. Chinn!
MRS. CHINN. (_She has risen_; _she curtseys_.) Good evening, ma’am.
ANNYS. (_She is taking off her hat_.) Nothing wrong, is there?
MRS. CHINN. My boy, ma’am, my youngest, has been getting into trouble.
ANNYS. (_She pauses_, _her hat in her hand_.) They will, won’t they?
It’s nothing serious, I hope?
MRS. CHINN. I think it will be all right, ma’am, thanks to your good
gentleman.
ANNYS. (_She lays aside her hat_.) You have had a good many children,
haven’t you, Mrs. Chinn?
MRS. CHINN. Ten altogether, ma’am; six living.
ANNYS. Can one love ten, all at once?
(_The cloak has fallen aside_. MRS. CHINN _is a much experienced
lady_.)
MRS. CHINN. Just as many as come, dear. God sends the love with them.
(_There is a moment_; _the two women are very close to one another_.
_Then_ ANNYS _gives a little cry and somehow their arms are round one
another_.)
(_She mothers her into the easy chair above the fire_; _places a
footstool under her feet_.) You have your cry out, dearie, it will do
you good.
ANNYS. You look so strong and great.
MRS. CHINN. It’s the tears, dearie. (_She arranges the foot-stool_.)
You keep your feet up.
(_The handle of the door is heard_. MRS. CHINN _is standing beside her
own chair_. _She is putting back her handkerchief into her bag_.)
(GEOFFREY _re-enters_.)
(ANNYS _is hidden in the easy chair_. _He does not see her_.)
GEOFFREY. Well, Mrs. Chinn, an exhaustive search for the accused will be
commenced—next week.
MRS. CHINN. Thank you, sir.
GEOFFREY. What about the children—are they going with him?
MRS. CHINN. No, sir; I thought he would be better without them till
everything is settled.
GEOFFREY. Who is taking care of them—you?
MRS. CHINN. Yes, sir.
GEOFFREY. And the passage money—how much was that?
MRS. CHINN. Four pound fifteen.
GEOFFREY. Would you mind my coming in, as a friend?
MRS. CHINN. Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not. I’ve always done
everything for the children myself. It’s been a fad of mine.
GEOFFREY. (_He makes a gesture of despair_.) You mothers! You’re so
greedy. (_He holds out his hand_, _smiling_.) Goodbye.
MRS. CHINN. (_She takes his hand in hers_.) God bless you, sir. And
your good lady.
GEOFFREY. (_As he takes her to the door_.) How will you get home?
MRS. CHINN. I can get the Underground from Gower Street, sir.
(_They go out talking about last trains and leaving the door open_.
_The next moment the front door is heard to slam_.)
(GEOFFREY _re-enters_.)
(ANNYS _has moved round_, _so that coming back into the room he finds
her there_.)
GEOFFREY. How long have you been in?
(_He closes the door_.)
ANNYS. Only a few minutes—while you were at the telephone. I had to
rest for a little while. Dr. Whitby brought me back in his motor.
GEOFFREY. Was he down there?
ANNYS. Phoebe had sent for him. I had been taken a little giddy earlier
in the day.
GEOFFREY. (_He grunts_. _He is fighting with his tenderness_.) Don’t
wonder at it. All this overwork and excitement.
ANNYS. I’m afraid I’ve been hurting you.
GEOFFREY. (_Still growling_.) Both been hurting each other, I expect.
ANNYS. (_She smiles_.) It’s so easy to hurt those that love us.
(_She makes a little movement_, _feebly stretches out her arms to him_.
_Wondering_, _he comes across to her_. _She draws him down beside
her_, _takes his arms and places them about her_.) I want to feel that
I belong to you. That you are strong. That I can rest upon you.
GEOFFREY. (_He cannot understand_.) But only an hour ago—(_He looks at
her_.) Have you, too, turned traitor to the Woman’s Cause?
ANNYS. (_She answers smiling_.) No. But woman, dear, is a much more
complicated person than I thought her. It is only in this hour that God
has revealed her to me. (_She draws him closer_.) I want you, dear—dear
husband. Take care of us—both, won’t you? I love you, I love you. I
did not know how much.
GEOFFREY. (_He gathers her to him_, _kissing her_, _crooning over her_.)
Oh, my dear, my dear! My little one, my love, my wife!
ANNYS. (_She is laughing_, _crying_.) But, Geoffrey, dear—
(_He tries to calm her_.)
No, let me. I want to— And then I’ll be quite good, I promise— It’s
only fair to warn you. When I’m strong and can think again, I shall
still want the vote. I shall want it more than ever.
GEOFFREY. (_He answers with a happy laugh_, _holding her in his arms_.)
ANNYS. You will help us? Because it’s right, dear, isn’t it? He will
be my child as well as yours. You will let me help you make the world
better for our child—and for all the children—and for all the mothers—and
for all the dear, kind men: you will, won’t you?
GEOFFREY. I thought you were drifting away from me: that strange voices
were calling you away from life and motherhood. God has laughed at my
fears. He has sent you back to me with His command. We will fashion His
world together, we two lovers, Man and Woman, joined together in all
things. It is His will. His chains are the children’s hands.
(_Kneeling_, _he holds her in his arms_.)
(THE CURTAIN FALLS.)
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Master of Mrs. Chilvers: An Improbable Comedy" ***
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