Plays Political

by Dan Laurence

  ALOYSIA. It has been true.

  SIR ARTHUR. That is the climax of unexpectedness in polite society. Therefore I am at a loss. Apparently my son was not at a loss. He knows how to deal with you: I do not. I must really refer you back to him for further consideration and report.

  They are about to shake hands when Lady Chavender comes in through the masked door.

  LADY CHAVENDER. Still here, Miss Brollikins! I thought you had gone. [She comes past the table to Sir Arthur’s right].

  SIR ARTHUR. She wants to marry David, my dear.

  LADY CHAVENDER [calmly] Very naturally. I think if I were in Miss Brollikins’ position I should want to marry David.

  ALOYSIA. I know your class point of view, Lady Chavender. You think it would be a big catch for me and a come-down for him.

  LADY CHAVENDER. We both know that point of view, Miss Brollikins; but it is you, not I, that have mentioned it. Wont you sit down? [She sits down herself in the nearest chair].

  ALOYSIA [murmurs] I was just going. [She resumes her seat].

  Sir Arthur also sits.

  LADY CHAVENDER. I daresay a match with you might be a very good thing for David. You seem to have all the qualities in which he is deficient. And he has been declaring for some months past that if he ever marries he will marry a factory girl.

  ALOYSIA. Well, I have been a factory girl. I started

  as a school teacher; but when they cut my salary I went into the factory. I organized the girls there, and became a trade union secretary. Wherever I went I rose because I couldnt keep down. But I am proletarian, bone and blood, if thats what David wants.

  LADY CHAVENDER. Nobody is that in England, Miss Brollikins. We have never had a noble caste: our younger sons have always been commoners.

  SIR ARTHUR. Yes, Aloysia: all British blood is blue.

  ALOYSIA. Well, call it what you like. All I say is that I belong to the common working people and am proud of it; and that is what David wants, isnt it?

  LADY CHAVENDER. What I said was that he wants to marry a factory girl. But I do not know what his attitude will be when a factory girl wants to marry him. Have you proposed to him?

  SIR ARTHUR. Yes. He told her to go to hell.

  LADY CHAVENDER. David has rather a habit of telling people to go to hell when he is too lazy to think of anything better to say. Miss Brollikins is a resolute and successful young woman. David is an irresolute and unsuccessful young man. If she has made up her mind to marry him she will probably succeed. She will have to support him; but I daresay she can do that as easily as she can support herself.

  ALOYSIA. I shall expect him to work for his living.

  LADY CHAVENDER. Marriage seldom fulfils all our expectations. You dont know David yet.

  ALOYSIA. I will find him a job and see that he does it. I will interest him in it.

  SIR ARTHUR. Splendid!

  ALOYSIA [puzzled] But I cant make out you two. You havnt flared up as I thought you might; but are you for me or against me?

  LADY CHAVENDER. Miss Brollikins: I am sorry; but there are two things that I cannot bring myself to take the smallest interest in: parliamentary affairs and love affairs. They both bore me to distraction.

  ALOYSIA [to Sir Arthur] Well, dont you take an interest in David?

  SIR ARTHUR. David is at the age at which young men have to break loose from their fathers. They are very sensitive about being interfered with at that age. He would regard my taking an interest in him as parental tyranny. Therefore I am particularly careful not to take any interest in him.

  ALOYSIA [rising] Well, you preach at me because my conversation is unexpected; but you two are the most unexpected lot I have ever been up against. What am I to understand? Will you play fair and let David take his own way?

  SIR ARTHUR [rising] We will even let him take your way if he wishes, Aloysia.

  LADY CHAVENDER [rising] You may leave me out of the question, Miss Brollikins. It is not my business, but my son’s. I am neither his enemy nor yours.

  ALOYSIA [perplexed] But do you think I ought to marry him?

  LADY CHAVENDER. Nobody ought to marry anybody, Aloysia. But they do.

  ALOYSIA. Well, thank you for calling me Aloysia, anyhow. It’s about all the satisfaction I have got here.

  She is about to go when David breaks in obstreperously through the masked door, and strides between the table and the window to Aloysia’s left.

  DAVID. Look here, Aloysia. What are you up to here? If you think you can get round me by getting round my parents, youre very much mistaken. My parents dont care a damn what I do as long as I take myself off their hands. And I wont be interfered with. Do you hear? I wont be interfered with.

  ALOYSIA. Your parents are too good for you, you uncivilized lout. Youve put me right off it by talking that way in front of your mother. If I was your mother I’d smack some manners into you.

  DAVID [appalled and imploring] Aloysia! [He tries to take her in his arms].

  ALOYSIA. Take your dirty hands off me [she flings him off]. It’s off, I tell you, off. Goodbye all. [She storms out through the main door].

  DAVID [in loud lament to his mother] Youve ruined my whole life. [He goes in pursuit, crying] Aloysia, Aloysia, wait a moment. [With anguished intensity] Aloysia. [His cries recede in the distance].

  LADY CHAVENDER

  [simultaneously]

  He might do worse.

  SIR ARTHUR

  He might do worse.

  LADY CHAVENDER. I beg your pardon. What did you say?

  SIR ARTHUR. I said he might do worse.

  LADY CHAVENDER. That is what I said. David is overbred: he is so fine-drawn that he is good for nothing; and he is not strong enough physically. Our breed needs to be crossed with the gutter or the soil once in every three or four generations. Uncle Theodore married his cook on principle; and his wife was my favourite aunt. Brollikins may give me goose flesh occasionally; but she wont bore me as a lady daughter-in-law would. I shall be always wondering what she will say or do next. If she were a lady I’d always know. I am so tired of wellbred people, and party politics, and the London season, and all the rest of it.

  SIR ARTHUR. I sometimes think you are the only really revolutionary revolutionist I have ever met.

  LADY CHAVENDER. Oh, lots of us are like that. We were born into good society; and we are through with it: we have no illusions about it, even if we are fit for nothing better. I dont mind Brollikins one bit.

  SIR ARTHUR. What about Barking?

  LADY CHAVENDER. I—

  Barking enters through the masked door, jubilant. He comes between the pair as they rise, and claps them both on the shoulders right and left simultaneously. They flinch violently, and stare at him in outraged amazement.

  BARKING. Good news, old dears! It’s all right about Flavia. We may put up the banns. Hooray! [He rubs hands gleefully].

  SIR ARTHUR. May I ask how you have got over her craze for marrying a poor man?

  BARKING. Oh, that was a girlish illusion. You see, she had a glimpse today, at the unemployment meeting, of what poor men are really like. They were awfully nice to her. That did the trick. You see, what she craved for before was their rough manners, their violence, their brutality and filthy language, their savage treatment of their women folk. That was her ideal of a delightful husband. She found today that the working man doesnt realize it. I do. I am a real he-man. I called her the foulest names until she gave in. She’s a dear. We shall be perfectly happy. Good old mother-in-law. [He kisses Lady Chavender, who is too astounded to resist or speak]. Tootle loo, Chavender. [He slaps him on the shoulder]. I am off to buy her a lot of presents. [He dashes out through the main door].

  SIR ARTHUR. So thats that.

  LADY CHAVENDER. The brute! How dare he kiss me? [She rubs the place with her handkerchief].

  SIR ARTHUR. Do you realize that we two are free at last? Free, dearest: think of that! No more children. Free to give up living in a big house and to spend the remainder of our lives
as we please. A cottage near a good golf links seems to be indicated. What would you like?

  LADY CHAVENDER. But your political career? Are you really going to give up that?

  SIR ARTHUR. It has given me up, dearest. Arnt you glad?

  LADY CHAVENDER. Arthur: I cant bear this.

  SIR ARTHUR. Cant bear what?

  LADY CHAVENDER. To see you discouraged. You have never been discouraged before: you have always been so buoyant. If this new departure is to do nothing for you but take away your courage and high spirits and selfconfidence, then in Heaven’s name go back to your old way of life. I will put up with anything rather than see you unhappy. That sort of unhappiness kills; and if you die I’ll die too. [She throws herself into a chair and hides her face on the table].

  SIR ARTHUR. Dont fuss, dearest: I’m not unhappy. I am enjoying the enormous freedom of having found myself out and got myself off my mind. That looks like despair; but it is really the beginning of hope, and the end of hypocrisy. Do you think I didnt know, in the days of my great speeches and my roaring popularity, that I was only whitewashing the slums? I did it very well—I dont care who hears me say so—and there is always a sort of artistic satisfaction in doing a thing very well, whether it’s getting a big Bill through the House, or carrying a big meeting off its feet, or winning a golf championship. It was all very jolly; and I’m still a little proud of it. But even if I had not had you here to remind me that it was all hot air, I couldnt help knowing as well as any of those damned Socialists that though the West End of London was chockful of money and nice people all calling one another by their Christian names, the lives of the millions of people whose labor was keeping the whole show going were not worth living. I knew it quite well; but I was able to put it out of my mind because I thought it couldnt be helped and I was doing the best that could be done. I know better now: I know that it can be helped, and how it can be helped. And rather than go back to the old whitewashing job, I’d seize you tight round the waist and make a hole in the river with you.

  LADY CHAVENDER [rising] Then why, dearest love, dont you—

  SIR ARTHUR. Why dont I lead a revolt against it all? Because I’m not the man for the job, darling; and nobody knows that better than you. And I shall hate the man who will carry it through for his cruelty and the desolation he will bring on us and our like.

  Shouting, as of an excited mob suddenly surging into the street; and a sound of breaking glass and police whistling.

  LADY CHAVENDER. What on earth is that?

  Hilda comes from her office and runs to the window.

  LADY CHAVENDER [joining her] What is going on, Hilda?

  HILDA. The unemployed have broken into Downing Street; and theyre breaking the windows of the Colonial Office. They think this side is only private houses.

  SIR ARTHUR [going to see] Yes: they always break the wrong windows, poor devils!

  HILDA. Oh! here come the mounted police.

  SIR ARTHUR. Theyve splendid horses, those fellows.

  HILDA. The people are all running away. And they cant get out: theyre in a cul-de-sac. Oh, why dont they make a stand, the cowards?

  LADY CHAVENDER. Indeed I hope they wont. What are you thinking of, Hilda?

  SIR ARTHUR. Men are like that, Hilda. They always run away when they have no discipline and no leader.

  HILDA. Well, but cant the police let them run away without breaking their heads? Oh look: that policeman has just clubbed a quite old man.

  SIR ARTHUR. Come away: it’s not a nice sight. [He draws her away, placing himself between her and the window].

  HILDA. It’s all right when you only read about it in the papers; but when you actually see it you want to throw stones at the police.

  Defiant singing through the tumult.

  LADY CHAVENDER [looking out] Someone has opened the side gate and let them through into the Horse Guards Parade. They are trying to sing.

  SIR ARTHUR. What are they singing? The Red Flag? LADY CHAVENDER. No. I dont know the tune. I caught the first two words. “England, arise.”

  HILDA [suddenly hysterical] Oh, my God! I will go out and join them [she rushes out through the main door].

  LADY CHAVENDER. Hilda! Hilda!

  SIR ARTHUR. Never mind, dear: the police all know her: she’ll come to no harm. She’ll be back for tea. But what she felt just now other girls and boys may feel tomorrow. And just suppose—!

  LADY CHAVENDER. What?

  SIR ARTHUR. Suppose England really did arise!

  Unemployed England, however, can do nothing but continue to sing, as best it can to a percussion accompaniment of baton thwacks, Edward Carpenter’s verses

  Geneva: Another Political Extravaganza

  WITH

  Preface

  Composition begun 11 February 1936; completed 4 April 1936, extensively revised prior to publication in 1939. Revised for third printing, 1940, and for French translation, 1946. Additional act in Standard Edition (Geneva, Cymbeline Refinished, & Good King Charles), 1947. First presented in Polish at the Teatr Polski, Warsaw, on 25 July 1938. First presented in English at the Festival Theatre, Malvern, on 1 August 1938.

  Begonia Brown Eileen Beldon

  The Jew Donald Eccles

  A Newcomer Maitland Moss

  The Widow Phyllis Gill

  A Journalist Wilson Barrett

  The Bishop H. R. Hignett

  Commissar Posky J. O. Twiss

  The Secretary of the League of Nations Cyril Gardiner

  Sir Orpheus Midlander Ernest Thesiger

  The Judge Donald Wolfit

  The Betrothed Kenneth Villiers

  Bardo Bombardone Cecil Trouncer

  Ernest Battler Norman Wooland

  The Deaconess Marie Ault

  General Flanco de Fortinbras R. Stuart Líndsell

  Period—The present. Geneva

  ACT I The Office of the International Institute for Intellectual Co-operation. A May morning

  ACT II Office of the Secretary of the League of Nations. Late afternoon

  ACT III Lounge of a Fashionable Restaurant overlooking the Lake of Geneva. Afternoon (some time later)

  ACT IV A Salon in the Old Palace of the Hague. Ten a.m.

  Preface

  * * *

  Contents

  Hoodwinked Heroism,

  England Frightened and Great,

  England Secure and Lazy,

  History Stops Yesterday: Statecraft Works Blindfold,

  We Split the Atom,

  An Amoral Victory,

  Civilization’s Will to Live Always Defeated by Democracy,

  Incompetent Governments are the Cruellest,

  Hitler,

  Pseudo Messiah and Madman,

  Democracy Misunderstood,

  “Great Men”,

  We Can and Must Live Longer,

  The Next Discovery,

  * * *

  When I had lived for 58 years free from the fear that Wear could come to my doorstep, the thing occurred. And when the war to end war had come to a glorious victory, it occurred again, worse than ever. I have now lived through two “world wars” without missing a meal or a night’s sleep in my bed, though they have come near enough to shatter my windows, break in my door, and wreck my grandfather clock, keeping me for nine years of my life subject to a continual apprehension of a direct hit next time blowing me and my household to bits.

  I cannot pretend that this troubled me much: people build houses and live on the slopes of Etna and Vesuvius and at the foot of Stromboli as cheerfully as on Primrose Hill. I was too old to be conscribed for military service; and the mathematical probabilities were enormously against a bomb coming my way; for at the worst of the bombardments only from ten to fifteen inhabitants of these islands were killed by air raids every day; and a dozen or so out of fortyfive millions is not very terrifying even when each of us knows that he or she is as likely as not to be one of the dozen. The risk of being run over by a motor bus, which townsmen run daily, is greater.r />
  HOODWINKED HEROISM

  It was this improbability which made pre-atomic air raiding futile as a means of intimidating a nation, and enabled the government of the raided nation to prevent the news of the damage reaching beyond its immediate neighborhood. One night early in the resumed war I saw, from a distance of 30 miles, London burning for three hours. Next morning I read in the newspapers that a bomb had fallen on the windowsill of a city office, and been extinguished before it exploded. Returning to London later on I found that half the ancient city had been levelled to the ground, leaving only St. Paul’s and a few church towers standing. The wireless news never went beyond “some damage and a few casualties in Southern England” when in fact leading cities and seaports had been extensively wrecked. All threatening news was mentioned only in secret sessions of parliament, hidden under heavy penalties until after the victory. In 1941, after the Dunkirk rout, our position was described by the Prime Minister to the House of Commons in secret session as so desperate that if the enemy had taken advantage of it we should have been helplessly defeated; and it is now the fashion to descant dithyrambically on the steadfast heroism with which the nation faced this terrible emergency. As a matter of fact the nation knew nothing about it. Had we been told, the Germans would have overheard and rushed the threatened invasion they were bluffed into abandoning. Far from realizing our deadly peril, we were exulting in the triumph of our Air Force in “the Battle of Britain” and in an incident in South America in which three British warships drove one German one into the river Plate. Rather than be interned with his crew the German captain put to sea again against hopeless odds; scuttled his ship; and committed suicide. The British newspapers raved about this for weeks as a naval victory greater than Salamis, Lepanto, and Trafalgar rolled into one.