[He hides his face, trying to master his emotion.
Mrs. Crowley goes to him and puts her
hand on his shoulder.
Mrs. Crowley.
Mr. Mackenzie.
Alec.
[Springing up.] Go away. Don’t look at me. How can you stand there and watch my weakness? Oh God, give me strength.... My love was the last human weakness I had. It was right that I should drink that bitter cup. And I’ve drunk its very dregs. I should have known that I wasn’t meant for happiness and a life of ease. I have other work to do in the world. And now that I have overcome this last temptation, I am ready to do it.
Mrs. Crowley.
But haven’t you any pity for yourself, haven’t you any thought for Lucy?
Alec.
Must I tell you, too, that everything I did was for Lucy’s sake? And still I love her with all my heart and soul....
Dick comes in.
Dick.
Here is Lucy!
[Charles comes in and announces Lucy.
Charles.
Miss Allerton!
[She enters, and Dick, anxious that the meeting
shall not be more awkward than need be,
goes up to her very cordially.
Dick.
Ah, my dear Lucy. So glad you were able to come.
Lucy.
[Giving her hand to Dick, but looking at Alec.] How d’you do?
Alec.
How d’you do? [He forces himself to talk.] How is Lady Kelsey?
Lucy.
She’s much better, thanks. We’ve been to Spa, you know, for her health.
Alec.
Somebody told me you’d gone abroad. Was it you, Dick? Dick is an admirable person, a sort of gazetteer for polite society.
Dick.
Won’t you have some tea, Lucy?
Lucy.
No, thanks!
Mrs. Crowley.
[Trying on her side also to make conversation.] We shall miss you dreadfully when you’re gone, Mr. Mackenzie.
Dick.
[Cheerfully.] Not a bit of it.
Alec.
[Smiling.] London is an excellent place for showing one of how little importance one is in the world. One makes a certain figure, and perhaps is tempted to think oneself of some consequence. Then one goes away, and on returning is surprised to discover that nobody has even noticed one’s absence.
Dick.
You’re over-modest, Alec. If you weren’t, you might be a great man. Now, I make a point of telling my friends that I’m indispensable, and they take me at my word.
Alec.
You are a leaven of flippancy in the heavy dough of British righteousness.
Dick.
The wise man only takes the unimportant quite seriously.
Alec.
[With a smile.] For it is obvious that it needs more brains to do nothing than to be a cabinet minister.
Dick.
You pay me a great compliment, Alec. You repeat to my very face one of my favourite observations.
Lucy.
[Almost in a whisper.] Haven’t I heard you say that only the impossible is worth doing?
Alec.
Good heavens, I must have been reading the headings of a copy-book.
Mrs. Crowley.
[To Dick.] Are you going to Southampton to see Mr. Mackenzie off?
Dick.
I shall hide my face on his shoulder and weep salt tears. It’ll be most affecting, because in moments of emotion I always burst into epigram.
Alec.
I loathe all solemn leave-takings. I prefer to part from people with a nod and a smile, whether I’m going for ever or for a day to Brighton.
Mrs. Crowley.
You’re very hard.
Alec.
Dick has been teaching me to take life flippantly. And I have learnt that things are only serious if you take them seriously, and that is desperately stupid. [To Lucy.] Don’t you agree with me?
Lucy.
No.
[Her tone, almost tragic, makes him pause
for an instant; but he is determined
that the conversation shall be purely conventional.
Alec.
It’s so difficult to be serious without being absurd. That is the chief power of women, that life and death are merely occasions for a change of costume: marriage a creation in white, and the worship of God an opportunity for a Paris bonnet.
[Mrs. Crowley makes up her mind to force a
crisis, and she gets up.
Mrs. Crowley.
It’s growing late, Dick. Won’t you take me round the house?
Alec.
I’m afraid my luggage has made everything very disorderly.
Mrs. Crowley.
It doesn’t matter. Come, Dick!
Dick.
[To Lucy.] You don’t mind if we leave you?
Lucy.
Oh, no.
[Mrs. Crowley and Dick go out. There is a
moment’s silence.
Alec.
Do you know that our friend Dick has offered his hand and heart to Mrs. Crowley this afternoon?
Lucy.
I hope they’ll be very happy. They’re very much in love with one another.
Alec.
[Bitterly.] And is that a reason for marrying? Surely love is the worst possible foundation for marriage. Love creates illusions, and marriages destroy them. True lovers should never marry.
Lucy.
Will you open the window? It seems stifling here.
Alec.
Certainly. [From the window.] You can’t think what a joy it is to look upon London for the last time. I’m so thankful to get away.
[Lucy gives a little sob and Alec turns to the
window. He wants to wound her and yet
cannot bear to see her suffer.
Alec.
To-morrow at this time I shall be well started. Oh, I long for that infinite surface of the clean and comfortable sea.
Lucy.
Are you very glad to go?
Alec.
[Turning to her.] I feel quite boyish at the very thought.
Lucy.
And is there no one you regret to leave?
Alec.
You see, Dick is going to marry. When a man does that, his bachelor friends are wise to depart gracefully before he shows them that he needs their company no longer. I have no relations and few friends. I can’t flatter myself that any one will be much distressed at my departure.
Lucy.
[In a low voice.] You must have no heart at all.
Alec.
[Icily.] If I had, I certainly should not bring it to Portman Square. That sentimental organ would be surely out of place in such a neighbourhood.
Lucy.
[Gets up and goes to him.] Oh, why do you treat me as if we were strangers? How can you be so cruel?
Alec.
[Gravely.] Don’t you think that flippancy is the best refuge from an uncomfortable position. We should really be much wiser merely to discuss the weather.
Lucy.
[Insisting.] Are you angry because I came?
Alec.
That would be ungracious on my part. Perhaps it wasn’t quite necessary that we should meet again.
Lucy.
You’ve been acting all the time I’ve been here. D’you think I didn’t see it was unreal when you talked with such cynical indifference. I know you well enough to tell when you’re hiding your real self behind a mask.
Alec.
If I’m doing that, the inference is obvious that I wish my real self to be hidden.
Lucy.
I would rather you cursed me than treat me with such cold politeness.
Alec.
I’m afraid you’re rather difficult to please.
[Lucy goes up to him passionately, but he draws
back so that she may not touch him.
Lucy.
Oh, you’re of iron.
Alec, Alec, I couldn’t let you go without seeing you once more. Even you would be satisfied if you knew what bitter anguish I’ve suffered. Even you would pity me. I don’t want you to think too badly of me.
Alec.
Does it much matter what I think? We shall be so many thousand miles apart.
Lucy.
I suppose that you utterly despise me.
Alec.
No. I loved you far too much ever to do that. Believe me, I only wish you well. Now that the bitterness is past, I see that you did the only possible thing. I hope that you’ll be very happy.
Lucy.
Oh, Alec, don’t be utterly pitiless. Don’t leave me without a single word of kindness.
Alec.
Nothing is changed, Lucy. You sent me away on account of your brother’s death.
[There is a long silence, and when she speaks
it is hesitatingly, as if the words were
painful to utter.
Lucy.
I hated you then, and yet I couldn’t crush the love that was in my heart. I used to try and drive you away from my thoughts, but every word you had ever said came back to me. Don’t you remember? You told me that everything you did was for my sake. Those words hammered at my heart as though it were an anvil. I struggled not to believe them. I said to myself that you had sacrificed George coldly, callously, prudently, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t true. [He looks at her, hardly able to believe what she is going to say, but does not speak.] Your whole life stood on one side and only this hateful story on the other. You couldn’t have grown into a different man in one single instant. I came here to-day to tell you that I don’t understand the reason of what you did. I don’t want to understand. I believe in you now with all my strength. I know that whatever you did was right and just — because you did it.
[He gives a long, deep sigh.
Alec.
Thank God! Oh, I’m so grateful to you for that.
Lucy.
Haven’t you anything more to say to me than that?
Alec.
You see, it comes too late. Nothing much matters now, for to-morrow I go away.
Lucy.
But you’ll come back.
Alec.
I’m going to a part of Africa from which Europeans seldom return.
Lucy.
[With a sudden outburst of passion.] Oh, that’s too horrible. Don’t go, dearest! I can’t bear it!
Alec.
I must now. Everything is settled, and there can be no drawing back.
Lucy.
Don’t you care for me any more?
Alec.
Care for you? I love you with all my heart and soul.
Lucy.
[Eagerly.] Then take me with you.
Alec.
You!
Lucy.
You don’t know what I can do. With you to help me I can be brave. Let me come, Alec?
Alec.
No, it’s impossible. You don’t know what you ask.
Lucy.
Then let me wait for you? Let me wait till you come back?
Alec.
And if I never come back?
Lucy.
I will wait for you still.
Alec.
Then have no fear. I will come back. My journey was only dangerous because I wanted to die. I want to live now, and I shall live.
Lucy.
Oh, Alec, Alec, I’m so glad you love me.
THE TENTH MAN
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
THE FIRST ACT
THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
SCENE II
CHARACTERS
This play was produced on the 24th February, 1910, with the following cast:
George Winter
Arthur Bourchier
Lord Francis Etchingham
Edmund Maurice
Mr. Perigal
A. Holmes Gore
James Ford
A. E. George
Robert Colby, M.P.
Godfrey Tearle
Frederick Bennett
Michael Sherbroke
Colonel Boyce
Frank Atherley
Rev. William Swalecliffe
George Beally
Edward O’Donnell
Douglas Imbert
Butler
Dallas Cairns
Lady Francis Etchingham
Kate Sergeantson
Catherine Winter
Francis Dillon
Anne
Daisy Markham
George Winter, M.P.
Lord Francis Etchingham
Robert Colby, M.P.
Mr. Perigal
James Ford
Colonel Boyce
Rev. William Swalecliffe
Frederick Bennett
Edward O’Donnell
Butler at Lord Francis Etchingham’s
Waiter at the Great Northern Hotel
Catherine Winter
Lady Francis Etchingham
Anne
The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.
THE FIRST ACT
Scene: A drawing-room at Lord Francis Etchingham’s house in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. An Adam room, with bright chintzes on the furniture, photographs on the chimney-piece and the piano, and a great many flowers. There is an archway at the back, leading into another drawing-room, and it is through this that visitors are introduced by the butler. On the left is a large bow window, and on the right a door leading into the library.
Lord and Lady Francis.
Lord Francis Etchingham is a man of fifty, of the middle height, rather bald, with an amiable, weak face. He is a good-natured person, anxious to do his best in all things and to all people so long as he is not bored. He wants everything to go smoothly. He has a comfortable idea of his own capacity. Reduced circumstances have drawn him into affairs, and he regards himself as a fine man of business. Lady Francis is a handsome and well-preserved woman of the same age as her husband, with dyed red hair; she has a massive, almost an imposing, presence, and she is admirably gowned. She treats her husband with good-humoured scorn, aware of his foibles, but amused rather than annoyed by them. When the curtain rises Francis Etchingham is a prey to the liveliest vexation. He is walking nervously across the room, while his wife, with a thin smile, stands quietly watching him. With a gesture of irritation he flings himself into a chair.
Etchingham.
Why the dickens didn’t you tell me last night, Angela?
Lady Francis.
[Smiling.] I had no wish to disturb my night’s rest.
Etchingham.
Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. It’s incomprehensible to me that you should have slept like a top. I couldn’t have closed my eyes the whole night.
Lady Francis.
I know. And you would have taken excellent care that I shouldn’t close mine either.
Etchingham.
I should have thought I had enough to do without being pestered with a foolish woman’s matrimonial difficulties.
Lady Francis.
[With a laugh.] You really have a very detached way of looking at things, Frank. No one would imagine, to hear you speak, that the foolish woman in question was your daughter.
Etchingham.
Really, Angela, I must beg you not to make this a subject of flippancy.
Lady Francis.
[Good-humouredly.] Well, what do you propose to do?
Etchingham.
[Flying out of his chair.] Do? What do you expect me to do? You tell me that Kate came home at twelve o’clock last night without a stitch of clothing....
Lady Francis.
My dear, if I told you that I was most unwarrantably distorting the truth.
Etchingham.
[Irritably correcting himself.] In a ball dress, with an opera cloak on — without her luggage, without even a dressing-case — and informs you that she’s left her husband.... It’s absurd.
Lady Francis.
Quite absurd. And so unnecessarily dramatic.
Etchingham.
And when’s she going home?
Lady Francis.
She assures me that she’s not going home.
Etchingham.
[Almost beside himself.] She’s not going to stay here?
Lady Francis.
Those are her plans at the moment.
Etchingham.
And George?
Lady Francis.
Well?
Etchingham.
You don’t suppose her husband’s going to put up with this nonsense? Has he made no sign?
Lady Francis.
Ten minutes after she arrived he sent a messenger boy — with a toothbrush.
Etchingham.
Why a toothbrush?
Lady Francis.
I don’t know. Presumably to brush her teeth.
Etchingham.
Well, that shows he doesn’t look upon the matter as serious. Of course, it was a whim on Kate’s part. Luckily he’s coming here this morning....
Lady Francis.
[Interrupting.] Is he?
Etchingham.
Yes, he promised to fetch me in his car. We’re going to drive down to the City together. I’ll bring him in, and meanwhile you can talk to Kate. I dare say she’s thought better of it already. It only wants a little tact, and we can settle the whole thing. George is clever enough to have given some plausible explanation to the servants.
Lady Francis.
Are you really under the impression things are going to pass off in that way?
Etchingham.
Why not?
Lady Francis.
They say it’s a wise man who knows his own father, but it’s apparently a wiser man still who knows his own daughter.
Etchingham.
Angela, for goodness’ sake don’t try to be bright and amusing.
Lady Francis.
Do you know so little of Kate as to imagine she would have taken a step of this kind without having quite made up her mind?
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 363