Taylor.
I guess that would be a dangerous experiment. You’ll be a lady in England, and I guess I’d be just the hired man.
Norah.
You’d be my husband.
Taylor.
I guess I wouldn’t risk it.
Norah.
You’ll write to me now and then and tell me how you’re getting on, won’t you?
Taylor.
Will you want to know?
Norah.
[Smiling.] Why, yes.
Taylor.
I’ll write and tell you if I’m making good. If I ain’t, I guess I shan’t feel much like writing.
Norah.
But you’ll make good, Frank. I know you well enough for that.
Taylor.
Do you?
Norah.
I have learnt to respect you during these months we’ve lived together. All sorts of qualities which I used to value seem very unimportant to me now. You’ve taught me a great deal.
Taylor.
You’ll think of me sometimes, my girl, won’t you?
Norah.
[Smiling.] I don’t suppose I shall be able to prevent it.
Taylor.
I was an ignorant, uneducated man. I didn’t know how to treat you properly. I wanted to make you happy and I didn’t seem to know just how to do it.
Norah.
You’ve never been unkind to me, Frank. You’ve been very patient with me.
Taylor.
I guess you’ll be happier away from me. I’ll be able to think that you’re warm and comfortable at home and you’ve got plenty to eat.
Norah.
D’you think that’s all I want?
[He gives her a rapid glance, and then setting his teeth looks away.]
Taylor.
I couldn’t expect you to stay on here, not when you got a chance of going back to the Old Country. This life is all new to you. And you know that one.
Norah.
Oh, yes, I know it — I should think I did. [As she pictures to herself the daily round which awaits her, she is filled with a sort of mirthless scorn, and this presently, as she speaks, is mixed with hatred and dismay.] At eight o’clock every morning a maid will bring me tea and hot water. And I shall get up, and I shall have breakfast, and I shall interview the cook. I shall order luncheon and dinner. And I shall brush the coats of Mrs. Hubbard’s poms and take them for a walk on the common. All the paths on the common are asphalted so that elderly gentlemen and lady’s companions shouldn’t get their feet wet.
Taylor.
Gee!
Norah.
And then I shall come in and lunch, and after luncheon I shall go for a drive, one day in this direction and one day in that. And then I shall have tea, and then I shall go out again on the nice neat asphalt paths to give the dogs another walk. And then I shall change my dress and come down to dinner. And after dinner I shall play bezique with my employer, and I must take care not to beat her because she doesn’t like being beaten. And at ten o’clock I shall go to bed.... [She pauses a moment.] At eight o’clock next morning a maid will bring in my tea and hot water, and the day will begin again. Every day will be just like every other. And there are hundreds of women in England, strong and capable, with blood in their veins, who would be eager to get the place that’s offered to me. Almost a lady and thirty-five pounds a year.
[Taylor has been gazing at her steadily. What she means begins to dawn on him, but he restrains himself. He will not look at her now.]
Taylor.
I guess it’s a bit different from the life you’ve had here.
Norah.
[Turning to him.] And you will be clearing the scrub, cutting down trees, ploughing the land, sowing and reaping. You will be fighting every day, frost, hail, and weed; you will be fighting, but I know you’ll be conquering in the end. Where was wilderness will be cultivated land. And who knows what starving child may eat the bread that has been made from the wheat that you grew. My life will be ineffectual and useless, but you will have done something worth while.
Taylor.
Why, what’s the matter with you, Norah, Norah?
[He does not say the words to her, but rather to himself as though they were forced from him in agony of spirit.]
Norah.
When I was talking to Mrs. Sharp just now I don’t know what I said, I was just trying to comfort her because she was crying, and it seemed to be someone else who was speaking, and I listened to myself. I thought I hated the prairie through the long winter months, and yet somehow it has caught hold of me. It was dreary and monotonous, and yet I can’t get it out of my heart. There’s a beauty and a romance in it which fill my soul with longing.
Taylor.
[Quietly.] I guess we all hate the prairie sometimes, but when you’ve once lived in it, it ain’t easy to live anywhere else.
Norah.
I know the life now. It’s not adventurous and exciting. For men and women it’s the same hard work from morning till night, and I know it’s the women who bear the greater burden. The men go into the towns, they have shooting now and then, and the different seasons bring them different work. But for the women it’s always the same, cooking, mending, washing, sweeping. And yet it’s all got a meaning. We, too, have our part in opening up the country. We are its mothers and the future is in us. We are building up the greatness of the nation. It needs our courage and strength and hope, and because it needs them, they come to us. Oh, Frank, I can’t go back to that petty, narrow life. What have you done to me?
Taylor.
[Hoarsely.] I guess if I asked you to stay now, you’d stay.
Norah.
[In a low voice.] You said you wanted my love. Don’t you know?... Love has been growing in me slowly, month by month, and I wouldn’t see it. I told myself I hated you. I was ashamed. It’s only to-day, when I had the means of leaving you for ever, that I knew I couldn’t live without you. I’m not ashamed any more. I love you.
Taylor.
I guess I loved you from the beginning, Norah.
Norah.
Why d’you say it as if...? What’s the matter, Frank?
Taylor.
I guess you’ll have to take that job in England. I can’t ask you to stay on.
Norah.
Why?
Taylor.
The inspector’s condemned the crop. I’m bust.
Norah.
Oh, why didn’t you tell me?
Taylor.
I guess I couldn’t. I made up my mind when I married you that I’d make good. I couldn’t expect you to see that it was just bad luck. Anyone can get the weed in his crop. But I guess a man oughtn’t to have bad luck. The odds are that it’s his own fault if he has.
Norah.
Now I understand about Eddie.
Taylor.
I wrote to him when I knew I’d been reported.
Norah.
What are you going to do?
Taylor.
It’s all right for me. I can hire out. It’s you I was thinking of. I felt pretty sure you wouldn’t go back to Ed’s. I didn’t fancy you taking a position as lady help. I didn’t know what was to become of you, my girl. And when you told me of the job in England, I thought I’d let you go.
Norah.
Without telling me you were in trouble?
Taylor.
Why, if I wasn’t smashed up, d’you think I’d let you go? By God, I wouldn’t. I’d have kep’ you — by God, I’d have kep’ you.
Norah.
Are you going to give the land up?
Taylor.
No, I guess I can’t do that. I’ve put too much work in it. And I’ve got my back up now. I shall hire out for the summer and next winter I can get work lumbering. The land’s my own now, and I’ll come back in time for the ploughing next year.
Norah.
Look.
Taylor.
What’s that?
[She hands him the chequ
e which she has received from Mr. Wynne.]
Norah.
The nephew of the lady I was with has made me a present of it. Twenty-five hundred dollars. You can lake the quarter section next to this one and get all the machinery you want and some cows. It’s yours to do what you like with. Now will you keep me?
Taylor.
Oh, my girl, how shall I ever be able to thank you!
Norah.
Good heavens, I don’t want thanks. There’s nothing in the world so wonderful as to be able to give to someone you love.... Give me a kiss and try.
Taylor.
I guess it’s the first time you’ve asked me to do that.
Norah.
Oh, I’m so happy.
THE END
THE UNKNOWN
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
TO
VIOLA TREE.
This play was produced on Monday, August 9, 1920, at the Aldwych Theatre with the following cast:
Colonel Wharton
Mr. Charles V. France
Major Wharton (John)
Mr. Basil Rathbone
Mrs. Wharton
Lady Tree
Mrs. Littlewood
Miss Haidee Wright
Rev. Norman Poole
Mr. H. R. Hignett
Mrs. Poole
Miss Lena Halliday
Sylvia Bullough
Miss Ellen O’Malley
Dr. Macfarlane
Mr. Clarence Blakiston
Kate
Miss Gwendolen Ffloyd
CHARACTERS
Colonel Wharton
Major Wharton (John)
Mrs. Wharton
Mrs. Littlewood
Rev. Norman Poole
Mrs. Poole
Sylvia Bullough
Dr. Macfarlane
Kate
Cook
The action of the play takes place at the Manor House, Stour, in the County of Kent.
The author ventures to suggest to the readers of this play that he makes no pretensions to throw a new light on any of the questions which are discussed in it, nor has he attempted to offer a solution of problems which, judging from the diversity of opinion which they have occasioned, may be regarded as insoluble. He has tried to put into dramatic form some of the thoughts and emotions which have recently agitated many, and for this purpose he has chosen the most ordinary characters in the circle with which, owing to his own circumstances, he is best acquainted. But because it is a good many years since he was on terms of intimate familiarity with a parish priest, and he was not certain how much the views of the clergy had changed, the author has put into the mouth of the Rev. Norman Poole phrases from Dr. Gore’s “The Religion of the Church,” and from a sermon by Dr. Stewart Holden. Since it is impossible in a play to indicate by quotation marks what is borrowed, the author takes this opportunity to acknowledge his indebtedness for the Rev. Norman Poole’s most characteristic speeches.
ACT I
The drawing-room at the Manor House, Colonel Wharton’s residence. It is a simple room, somewhat heavily furnished in an old-fashioned style; there is nothing in it which is in the least artistic; but the furniture is comfortable, and neither new nor shabby. On the papered walls are the Academy pictures of forty years ago. There are a great many framed photographs of men in uniform, and here and there a bunch of simple flowers in a vase. The only things in the room which are at all exotic are silver ornaments from Indian bazaars and flimsy Indian fabrics, used as cloths on the occasional tables and as drapery on the piano. At the back are French windows leading into the garden; and this, with its lawn and trees, is seen through them. It is summer, and the windows are open. Morning.
Mrs. Wharton is sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting a khaki comforter. She is a slight, tall woman of five-and-fifty; she has deliberate features, with kind eyes and a gentle look; her dark hair is getting very gray; it is simply done; and her dress, too, is simple; it is not at all new and was never fashionable.
Kate, a middle-aged maid-servant, in a print dress, a cap and apron, comes in.
Kate.
If you please, ma’am, the butcher’s called.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh! I arranged with Cook that we should have cold roast beef again for luncheon to-day, Kate. Tell the butcher to bring two and a half pounds of the best end of the neck for to-night, and tell him to pick me out a really nice piece, Kate. It’s so long since the Major has had any good English meat.
Kate.
Very good, ma’am.
Mrs. Wharton.
And he might send in a couple of kidneys. The Colonel and Major Wharton enjoyed the kidneys that they had for breakfast yesterday so much.
Kate.
Very good, ma’am. If you please, ma’am, the gardener hasn’t sent in a very big basket of pease. Cook says it won’t look much for three.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, well, it doesn’t matter as long as there are enough for the gentlemen. I’ll just pretend to take some.
Kate.
Very good, ma’am.
As she is going, Colonel Wharton enters from the garden with a basket of cherries. He is a thin old man, much older than his wife, with white hair; but though very frail he still carries himself erectly. His face is bronzed by long exposure to tropical suns, but even so it is the face of a sick man. He wears a light tweed suit which hangs about him loosely, as though he had shrunk since it was made for him. He has a round tweed hat of the same material.
Colonel Wharton.
Has the paper come yet, Kate?
Kate.
Yes, sir. I’ll bring it.
[Exit Kate
Colonel Wharton.
I’ve brought you in some cherries, Evelyn. They’re the only ripe ones I could find.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, that is nice. I hope you’re not tired.
Colonel Wharton.
Great Scott, I’m not such a crock that it can tire me to pick a few cherries. If I’d been able to find a ladder I’d have got you double the number.
Mrs. Wharton.
Oh, my dear, you’d better let the gardener get them. I don’t approve of your skipping up and down ladders.
Colonel Wharton.
The gardener’s just as old as I am and not nearly so active. Hasn’t John come in yet? He said he was only going to the post.
Mrs. Wharton.
Perhaps he went in to see Sylvia on the way back.
Colonel Wharton.
I shouldn’t have thought she wanted to be bothered with him in the morning.
Mrs. Wharton.
George!
Colonel Wharton.
Yes, dear.
Mrs. Wharton.
It seems so extraordinary to hear you say: “Hasn’t John come in yet? He said he was only going to the post.” It makes me rather want to cry.
Colonel Wharton.
It’s been a long time, Evelyn. It’s been a bad time for both of us, my dear. But worse for you.
Mrs. Wharton.
I tried not to be troublesome, George.
Colonel Wharton.
Dear child, aren’t I there to share your troubles with you?
Mrs. Wharton.
It seems so natural that he should come in any minute, it seems as though he’d never been away — and yet somehow I can’t quite believe it. It seems incredible that he should really be back.
Colonel Wharton.
[Patting her hand.] My dear Evelyn!
[Kate brings in the paper and gives it to the Colonel. She goes out.
Colonel Wharton.
Thank you. [While he puts on his spectacles.] It’s a blessing to be able to read the births, deaths, and marriages like a gentleman instead of turning before anything else to the casualties.
Mrs. Wharton.
I hope before long that we shall be composing a little announcement for that column.
Have they settled a day yet, those young people?
Mrs. Wharton.
I don’t know. John hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t see Sylvia yesterday except for a moment after church.
Colonel Wharton.
Evelyn dear, the gardener tells me he hasn’t got much in the way of pease ready for to-night, so I’ve told him to send in a few carrots for me; I think they’re probably better for my digestion.
Mrs. Wharton.
Nonsense, George. You know how much you like pease, and I’m not very fond of them. I was hoping there’d only be enough for two so that I shouldn’t have to eat any.
Colonel Wharton.
Evelyn, where do you expect to go when you die if you tell such stories?
Mrs. Wharton.
Now, George, don’t be obstinate. You might give in to me sometimes. They’re the first pease out of the garden and I should like you to eat them.
Colonel Wharton.
No, my dear, I’d like to see you eat them. I’m an invalid, and I must have my own way.
Mrs. Wharton.
You tyrant! You haven’t seen Dr. Macfarlane this morning? I’m so anxious.
Colonel Wharton.
You old fusser! No sooner have you stopped worrying over your boy than you start worrying over me.
Mrs. Wharton.
Even though you won’t let me call my soul my own, I don’t want to lose you just yet.
Colonel Wharton.
Don’t be alarmed. I shall live to plague you for another twenty years.
[Kate comes in.
Kate.
If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Poole has called.
Mrs. Wharton.
Why haven’t you shown her in?
Kate.
She wouldn’t come in, ma’am. She said she was passing and she just stopped to enquire how you were.
Colonel Wharton.
Tell her to come in, Kate. What’s she making all this fuss about.
Kate.
Very well, sir.
[Exit.
Mrs. Wharton.
I expect she wants to hear all about John.
Colonel Wharton.
If she’ll wait a minute she’ll have the chance of seeing the young fellow himself.
[Kate comes in, followed by Mrs. Poole. The visitor is a thin, rather dour person of middle age, brisk in her movements, competent and firm. She is a woman who knows her own mind and has no hesitation in speaking it. She is not unsympathetic. She wears a serviceable black coat and skirt and a black straw hat.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 392