by Unknown
JOANNA (snapping). By the painters for whom you sat when you were an artist’s model?
ALICE (measuring her). So that has leaked out, has it!
JOANNA (ashamed). I shouldn’t have said that.
ALICE (their brief friendship over). Do you think I care whether you know or not?
JOANNA (making an effort to be good). I’m sure you don’t. Still, it was cattish of me.
ALICE. It was.
JOANNA (in flame). I don’t see it.
(MRS. DEARTH laughs and forgets her, and with the entrance of a man from the dining room JOANNA drifts elsewhere. Not so much a man, this newcomer, as the relic of what has been a good one; it is the most he would ever claim for himself. Sometimes, brandy in hand, he has visions of the WILL DEARTH he used to be, clear of eye, sees him but a field away, singing at his easel or, fishingrod in hand, leaping a stile. Our WILL stares after the fellow for quite a long time, so long that the two melt into the one who finishes LOB’s brandy. He is scarcely intoxicated as he appears before the lady of his choice, but he is shaky and has watery eyes.)
(ALICE has had a rather wild love for this man, or for that other one, and he for her, but somehow it has gone whistling down the wind. We may expect therefore to see them at their worst when in each other’s company.)
DEARTH (who is not without a humorous outlook on his own degradation). I am uncommonly flattered, Alice, to hear that you have sent for me. It quite takes me aback.
ALICE (with cold distaste). It isn’t your company I want, Will.
DEARTH. You know. I felt that Purdie must have delivered your message wrongly.
ALICE. I want you to come with us on this mysterious walk and keep an eye on Lob.
DEARTH. On poor little Lob? Oh, surely not.
ALICE. I can’t make the man out. I want you to tell me something; when he invited us here, do you think it was you or me he specially wanted?
DEARTH. Oh, you. He made no bones about it; said there was something about you that made him want uncommonly to have you down here.
ALICE. Will, try to remember this: did he ask us for any particular time?
DEARTH. Yes, he was particular about its being Midsummer week.
ALICE. Ah! I thought so. Did he say what it was about me that made him want to have me here in Midsummer week?
DEARTH. No, but I presumed it must be your fascination, Alice.
ALICE. Just so. Well, I want you to come out with us tonight to watch him.
DEARTH. Crackin-my-eye-Tommy, spy on my host! And such a harmless little chap, too. Excuse me, Alice. Besides I have an engagement.
ALICE. An engagement — with the port decanter, I presume.
DEARTH. A good guess, but wrong. The decanter is now but an empty shell. Still, how you know me! My engagement is with a quiet cigar in the garden.
ALICE. Your hand is so unsteady, you won’t be able to light the match.
DEARTH. I shall just manage. (He triumphantly proves the exact truth of his statement.)
ALICE. A nice hand for an artist!
DEARTH. One would scarcely call me an artist now-a-days.
ALICE. Not so far as any work is concerned.
DEARTH. Not so far as having any more pretty dreams to paint is concerned. (Grinning at himself.) Wonder why I have become such a waster, Alice?
ALICE. I suppose it was always in you.
DEARTH (with perhaps a glimpse of the fishingrod). I suppose so; and yet I was rather a good sort in the days when I went courting you.
ALICE. Yes, I thought so. Unlucky days for me, as it has turned out.
DEARTH (heartily). Yes, a bad job for you. (Puzzling unsteadily over himself.) I didn’t know I was a wrong ‘un at the time; thought quite well of myself, thought a vast deal more of you. Crackin-my-eye-Tommy, how I used to leap out of bed at 6 A.M. all agog to be at my easel; blood ran through my veins in those days. And now I’m middle-aged and done for. Funny! Don’t know how it has come about, nor what has made the music mute. (Mildly curious.) When did you begin to despise me, Alice?
ALICE. When I got to know you really, Will; a long time ago.
DEARTH (bleary of eye). Yes, I think that is true. It was a long time ago, and before I had begun to despise myself. It wasn’t till I knew you had no opinion of me that I began to go down hill. You will grant that, won’t you; and that I did try for a bit to fight on? If you had cared for me I wouldn’t have come to this, surely?
ALICE. Well, I found I didn’t care for you, and I wasn’t hypocrite enough to pretend I did. That’s blunt, but you used to admire my bluntness.
DEARTH. The bluntness of you, the adorable wildness of you, you untamed thing! There were never any shades in you; kiss or kill was your motto, Alice. I felt from the first moment I saw you that you would love me or knife me.
(Memories of their shooting star flare in both of them for as long as a sheet of paper might take to burn.)
ALICE. I didn’t knife you.
DEARTH. No. I suppose that was where you made the mistake. It is hard on you, old lady. (Becoming watery.) I suppose it’s too late to try to patch things up?
ALICE. Let’s be honest; it is too late, Will. DEARTH (whose tears would smell of brandy). Perhaps if we had had children — Pity!
ALICE. A blessing I should think, seeing what sort of a father they would have had.
DEARTH (ever reasonable). I dare say you’re right. Well, Alice, I know that somehow it’s my fault. I’m sorry for you.
ALICE. I’m sorry for myself. If I hadn’t married you what a different woman I should be. What a fool I was.
DEARTH. Ah! Three things they say come not back to men nor women — the spoken word, the past life and the neglected opportunity. Wonder if we should make any more of them, Alice, if they did come back to us.
ALICE. You wouldn’t.
DEARTH (avoiding a hiccup). I guess you’re right.
ALICE. But I —
DEARTH (sincerely). Yes, what a boon for you. But I hope it’s not Freddy Finch-Fallowe you would put in my place; I know he is following you about again. (He is far from threatening her, he has too beery an opinion of himself for that.)
ALICE. He followed me about, as you put it, before I knew you. I don’t know why I quarrelled with him.
DEARTH. Your heart told you that he was no good, Alice.
ALICE. My heart told me that you were. So it wasn’t of much service to me, my heart!
DEARTH. The Honourable Freddy Finch-Fallowe is a rotter.
ALICE (ever inflammable). You are certainly an authority on the subject.
DEARTH (with the sad smile of the disillusioned). You have me there. After which brief, but pleasant, little connubial chat, he pursued his dishonoured way into the garden.
(He is however prevented doing so for the moment by the return of the others. They are all still in their dinner clothes though wearing wraps. They crowd in through the door, chattering.)
LOB. Here they are. Are you ready, dear lady?
MRS. COADE (seeing that DEARTH’s hand is on the window curtains). Are you not coming with us to find the wood, Mr. Dearth.
DEARTH. Alas, I am unavoidably detained. You will find me in the garden when you come back.
JOANNA (whose sense of humour has been restored). If we ever do come back!
DEARTH. Precisely. (With a groggy bow.) Should we never meet again, Alice, fare thee well. Purdie, if you find the tree of knowledge in the wood bring me back an apple.
PURDIE. I promise.
LOB. Come quickly. Matey mustn’t see me. (He is turning out the lights.)
LADY CAROLINE (pouncing). Matey? What difference would that make, Lob?
LOB. He would take me off to bed; it’s past my time.
COADE (not the least gay of the company). You know, old fellow, you make it very difficult for us to embark upon this adventure in the proper eerie spirit.
DEARTH. Well, I’m for the garden.
(He walks to the window, and the others are going out by th
e door. But they do not go. There is a hitch somewhere — at the window apparently, for DEARTH, having begun to draw the curtains apart lets them fall, like one who has had a shock. The others remember long afterwards his grave face as he came quietly back and put his cigar on the table. The room is in darkness save for the light from one lamp.)
PURDIE (wondering). How, now, Dearth?
DEARTH. What is it we get in that wood, Lob?
ALICE. Ah, he won’t tell us that.
LOB (shrinking). Come on!
ALICE (impressed by the change that has come over her husband). Tell us first.
LOB (forced to the disclosure). They say that in the wood you get what nearly everybody here is longing for — a second chance.
(The ladies are simultaneously enlightened.)
JOANNA (speaking for all). So that is what we have in common!
COADE: (with gentle regret). I have often thought, Coady, that if I had a second chance I should be a useful man instead of just a nice lazy one.
ALICE (morosely). A second chance!
LOB. Come on.
PURDIE (gaily). Yes, to the wood — the wood!
DEARTH (as they are going out by the door). Stop, why not go this way?
(He pulls the curtains apart, and there comes a sudden indrawing of breath from all, for no garden is there now. In its place is an endless wood of great trees; the nearest of them has come close to the window. It is a sombre wood, with splashes of moonshine and of blackness standing very still in it.)
(The party in the drawingroom are very still also; there is scarcely a cry or a movement. It is perhaps strange that the most obviously frightened is LOB who calls vainly for MATEY. The first articulate voice is DEARTH’S.)
DEARTH (very quietly). Any one ready to risk it?
PURDIE (after another silence). Of course there is nothing in it — just
DEARTH (grimly). Of course. Going out, Purdie?
(PURDIE draws back.)
MRS. DEARTH (the only one who is undaunted). A second chance! (She is looking at her husband. They all look at him as if he had been a leader once.)
DEARTH (with his sweet mournful smile). I shall be back in a moment — probably.
(As he passes into the wood his hands rise, as if a hammer had tapped him on the forehead. He is soon lost to view.)
LADY CAROLINE (after a long pause). He does not come back.
MRS. COADE. It’s horrible.
(She steals off by the door to her room, calling to her husband to do likewise. He takes a step after her, and stops in the grip of the two words that holds them all. The stillness continues. At last MRS. PURDIE goes out into the wood, her hands raised, and is swallowed up by it.)
PURDIE. Mabel!
ALICE (sardonically). You will have to go now, Mr. Purdie.
(He looks at JOANNA, and they go out together, one tap of the hammer for each.)
LOB. That’s enough. (Warningly.) Don’t you go, Mrs. Dearth. You’ll catch it if you go.
ALICE. A second chance!
(She goes out unflinching.)
LADY CAROLINE. One would like to know.
(She goes out. MRS. COADE’S voice is heard from the stair calling to her husband. He hesitates but follows LADY CAROLINE. To LOB now alone comes MATEY with a tray of coffee cups.)
MATEY (as he places his tray on the table). It is past your bedtime, sir. Say goodnight to the ladies, and come along.
LOB. Matey, look!
(MATEY looks.)
MATEY (shrinking). Great heavens, then it’s true!
LOB. Yes, but I — I wasn’t sure.
(MATEY approaches the window cautiously to peer out, and his master gives him a sudden push that propels him into the wood. LOB’s back is toward us as he stands alone staring out upon the unknown. He is terrified still; yet quivers of rapture are running up and down his little frame.)
ACT II
We are translated to the depths of the wood in the enchantment of a moonlight night. In some other glade a nightingale is singing, in this one, in proud motoring attire, recline two mortals whom we have known in different conditions; the second chance has converted them into husband and wife. The man, of gross muddy build, lies luxurious on his back exuding affluence, a prominent part of him heaving playfully, like some little wave that will not rest in a still sea. A handkerchief over his face conceals from us what Colossus he may be, but his mate is our Lady Caroline. The nightingale trills on, and Lady Caroline takes up its song.
LADY CAROLINE. Is it not a lovely night, Jim. Listen, my own, to Philomel; he is saying that he is lately married. So are we, you ducky thing. I feel, Jim, that I am Rosalind and that you are my Orlando.
(The handkerchief being removed MR. MATEY is revealed; and the nightingale seeks some farther tree.)
MATEY. What do you say I am, Caroliny?
LADY CAROLINE (clapping her hands). My own one, don’t you think it would be fun if we were to write poems about each other and pin them on the tree trunks?
MATEY (tolerantly). Poems? I never knew such a lass for high-flown language.
LADY CAROLINE. Your lass, dearest. Jim’s lass.
MATEY (pulling her ear). And don’t you forget it.
LADY CAROLINE (with the curiosity of woman). What would you do if I were to forget it, great bear?
MATEY. Take a stick to you.
LADY CAROLINE (so proud of him). I love to hear you talk like that; it is so virile. I always knew that it was a master I needed.
MATEY. It’s what you all need.
LADY CAROLINE. It is, it is, you knowing wretch.
MATEY. Listen, Caroliny. (He touches his money pocket, which emits a crinkly sound — the squeak of angels.) That is what gets the ladies.
LADY CAROLINE. How much have you made this week, you wonderful man?
MATEY (blandly). Another two hundred or so. That’s all, just two hundred or so.
LADY CAROLINE (caressing her wedding ring). My dear golden fetter, listen to him. Kiss my fetter, Jim.
MATEY. Wait till I light this cigar.
LADY CAROLINE. Let me hold the darling match.
MATEY. Tidy-looking Petitey Corona, this. There was a time when one of that sort would have run away with two days of my screw.
LADY CAROLINE. How I should have loved, Jim, to know you when you were poor. Fancy your having once been a clerk.
MATEY (remembering Napoleon and others). We all have our beginnings. But it wouldn’t have mattered how I began, Caroliny: I should have come to the top just the same. (Becoming a poet himself.) I am a climber and there are nails in my boots for the parties beneath me. Boots! I tell you if I had been a bootmaker, I should have been the first bootmaker in London.
LADY CAROLINE (a humourist at last). I am sure you would, Jim; but should you have made the best boots?
MATEY (uxoriously wishing that others could have heard this). Very good. Caroliny; that is the nearest thing I have heard you say. But it’s late; we had best be strolling back to our Rolls-Royce.
LADY CAROLINE (as they rise). I do hope the ground wasn’t damp.
MATEY. Don’t matter if it was; I was lying on your rug.
(Indeed we notice now that he has had all the rug, and she the bare ground. JOANNA reaches the glade, now an unhappy lady who has got what she wanted. She is in country dress and is unknown to them as they are to her.) Who is the mournful party?
JOANNA (hesitating). I wonder, sir, whether you happen to have seen my husband? I have lost him in the wood.
MATEY. We are strangers in these parts ourselves, missis. Have we passed any one, Caroliny?
LADY CAROLINE (coyly). Should we have noticed, dear? Might it be that old gent over there? (After the delightful manner of those happily wed she has already picked up many of her lover’s favourite words and phrases.)
JOANNA. Oh no, my husband is quite young.
(The woodlander referred to is MR COADE in gala costume; at his mouth a whistle he has made him from some friendly twig. To its ravishing
music he is seen pirouetting charmingly among the trees, his new occupation.)
MATEY (signing to the unknown that he is wanted). Seems a merry old cock. Evening to you, sir. Do you happen to have seen a young gentleman in the wood lately, all by himself, and looking for his wife?