MINNIE: And why didn’t I? Why didn’t I? Because he came in his half-hearted “I will if you like” fashion, and I despised him, yes I did.
MRS GASCOIGNE: And who are you to be despising him, I should like to know?
MINNIE: I’m a woman, and that’s enough. But I know now, it was your fault. You held him, and persuaded him that what he wanted was you. You kept him, like a child, you even gave him what money he wanted, like a child. He never roughed it — he never faced out anything. You did all that for him.
MRS GASCOIGNE: And what if I did! If you made as good a wife to him as I made a mother, you’d do.
MINNIE: Should I? You didn’t care what women your sons went with, so long as they didn’t love them. What do you care really about this affair of Bertha Purdy? You don’t. All you cared about was to keep your sons for yourself. You kept the solid meal, and the orts and slarts any other woman could have. But I tell you, I’m not for having the orts and slarts, and your leavings from your sons. I’ll have a man, or nothing, I will.
MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s rare to be some folks, ter pick and choose.
MINNIE: I can’t pick and choose, no. But what I won’t have, I won’t have, and that is all.
MRS GASCOIGNE (to LUTHER): Have I ever kept thee from doin’ as tha wanted? Have I iver marded and coddled thee?
LUTHER: Tha hasna, beguy!
MINNIE: No, you haven’t, perhaps, not by the look of things. But you’ve bossed him. You’ve decided everything for him, really. He’s depended on you as much when he was thirty as when he was three. You told him what to do, and he did it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: My word, I’ve never known all he did.
MINNIE: You have — everything that mattered. You maybe didn’t know it was Bertha Purdy, but you knew it was some woman like her, and what did you care? She had the orts and slarts, you kept your son. And you want to keep him, even now. Yes — and you do keep him.
MRS GASCOIGNE: We’re learnin’ a thing or two, Luther.
LUTHER: Ay.
Enter JOE.
MINNIE: Yes! What did you care about the woman who would have to take some after you? Nothing! You left her with just the slarts of a man. Yes.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Indeed! I canna see as you’re so badly off. You’ve got a husband as doesn’t drink, as waits on you hand and foot, as gives you a free hand in everything. It’s you as doesn’t know when you’re well off, madam.
MINNIE: I’d rather have had a husband who knocked me about than a husband who was good to me because he belonged to his mother. He doesn’t and can’t really care for me. You stand before him. His real caring goes to you. Me he only wants sometimes.
JOE: She’ll be in in a minute.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt the biggest fool an’ jackanapes, our Joe, as iver God made.
MINNIE: If she crosses that doorstep, then I go for good.
MRS GASCOIGNE (bursting into fury — to JOE): Tha see what thy bobby interferin’ has done.
JOE: Nay — that’s how it stood.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha mun go an’ stop her, our Luther. Tell ‘er it wor our Joe’s foolery. An’ look sharp.
LUTHER: What should I go for?
LUTHER goes out, furious.
MINNIE: You see — you see! His mother’s word is law to him. He’d do what I told him, but his feel would be for you. He’s got no feeling for me. You keep all that.
MRS GASCOIGNE: You talk like a jealous woman.
MINNIE: I do! And for that matter, why doesn’t Joe marry, either? Because you keep him too. You know, in spite of his bluster, he cares more for your little finger than he does for all the women in the world — or ever will. And it’s wrong — it’s wrong. How is a woman ever to have a husband, when the men all belong to their mothers? It’s wrong.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Oh, indeed! — is it? You know, don’t you? You know everything.
MINNIE: I know this, because I’ve suffered from it. Your elder sons you let go, and they are husbands. But your young sons you’ve kept. And Luther is your son, and the man that lives with me. But first, he’s your son. And Joe ought never to marry, for he’d break a woman’s heart.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha hears, lad! We’re bein’ told off.
JOE: Ah, I hear. An’ what’s more, it’s true, Mother.
MINNIE: It is — it is. He only likes playing round me and getting some pleasure out of teasing me, because he knows I’m safely married to Luther, and can never look to him to marry me and belong to me. He’s safe, so he likes me. If I were single, he’d be frightened to death of me.
JOE: Happen I should.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt a fool.
MINNIE: And that’s what you’ve done to me — that’s my life spoiled — spoiled — ay, worse than if I’d had a drunken husband that knocked me about. For it’s dead.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’rt shoutin’ because nowt ails thee — that’s what tha art.
JOE: Nay, Mother, tha knows it’s right. Tha knows tha’s got me — an’ll ha’e me till ter dies — an’ after that — yi.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha talks like a fool.
JOE: And sometimes, Mother, I wish I wor dead, I do.
MINNIE: You see, you see! You see what you’ve done to them. It’s strong women like you, who were too much for their husbands — ah!
JOE: Tha knows I couldna leave thee, Mother — tha knows I couldna. An’ me, a young man, belongs to thy owd age. An’ there’s nowheer for me to go, Mother. For tha’rt gettin’ nearer to death an’ yet I canna leave thee to go my own road. An’ I wish, yi, often, as I wor dead.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Dunna, lad — dunna let ‘er put these ideas i’ thy head.
JOE: An’ I can but fritter my days away. There’s no goin’ forrard for me.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Nay, lad, nay — what lad’s better off than thee, dost reckon?
JOE: If I went t’r Australia, th’ best part on me wouldna go wi’ me.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha wunna go t’r Australia!
JOE: If I went, I should be a husk of a man. I’m allers a husk of a man, Mother. There’s nowt solid about me. The’ isna.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Whativer dost mean? You’ve a’ set on me at once.
JOE: I’m nowt, Mother, an’ I count for nowt. Yi, an’ I know it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha does. Tha sounds as if tha counts for nowt, as a rule, doesn’t ter?
JOE: There’s not much of a man about me. T’other chaps is more of fools, but they more of men an’ a’ — an’ they know it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: That’s thy fault.
JOE: Yi — an’ will be — ter th’ end o’ th’ chapter.
Enter LUTHER.
MINNIE: Did you tell her?
LUTHER: Yes.
MINNIE: We’ll have some tea, should we?
JOE: Ay, let’s. For it’s bin dry work.
She sets the kettle on.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I mun be goin’.
MINNIE: Wait and have a cup of tea. I brought a cake.
JOE: But we non goin’ ter ha’e it, are we, Luther, these ‘ere blacklegs goin’ down interferin’.
LUTHER: We arena.
MRS GASCOIGNE: But how are you going to stop them?
JOE: We s’ll manage it, one road or t’other.
MRS GASCOIGNE: You’ll non go gettin’ yourselves into trouble.
LUTHER: We in trouble enow.
MINNIE: If you’d have had Lizzie Charley in, what should you have paid her with?
LUTHER: We should ha’ found the money somewhere.
MINNIE: Do you know what I had to keep house on this week, Mother?
MRS GASCOIGNE: Not much, sin’ there wor nowt but ten shillin’ strike pay.
MINNIE: He gave me five shillings.
LUTHER: Tha could ha’ had what things ter wanted on strap.
MINNIE: No — but why should you keep, to drink on, as much as you give me to keep house on? Five shillings!
JOE: Five bob’s non a whackin’ sight o’ pocket money for a man’s week.
MIN
NIE: It is, if he earns nothing. It was that as finished me off.
JOE: Well, tha niver ned go short — tha can let him.
MINNIE: I knew that was what he thought. But if he wouldna have my money for one thing, he wasn’t going to for another.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, what wouldn’t he have it for?
MINNIE: He wouldn’t have that forty pounds, when I went on my knees to beg and beseech him to.
LUTHER: Tha did! Tha throwed it at me as if I wor a beggar as stank.
MINNIE: And you wouldn’t have it when I asked you.
LUTHER: No — an’ wouldna ha’e it now.
MINNIE: You can’t.
LUTHER: I dunna want it.
MINNIE: And if you don’t find money to keep the house on, we shall both of us starve. For you’ve got to keep me. And I’ve got no money of my own now.
LUTHER: Why, what dost mean?
MINNIE: I mean what I say.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Why, what?
MINNIE: I was sick of having it between us. It was but a hundred and twenty. So I went to Manchester and spent it.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha’s bin an’ spent a hundred and twenty pound i’ four days?
MINNIE: Yes, I have.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Whativer are we comin’ to!
JOE: That wor a stroke worth two. Tell us what tha bought.
MINNIE: I bought myself a ring, for one thing. I thought if I ever had any children, and they asked me where was my engagement ring, I should have to show them something, for their father’s sake. Do you like it? (Holds out her hand to JOE.)
JOE: My word, but that’s a bobby-dazzler. Look, Mother.
MRS GASCOIGNE: H’m.
JOE takes the ring off.
JOE: My word, but that’s a diamond, if you like. How much did it cost?
MINNIE: Thirty pounds. I’ve got the bill in my pocket.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I only hope you’ll niver come to want some day.
MINNIE: Luther must see to that.
JOE: And what else did ter buy?
MINNIE: I’ll show you. (Gets her bag, unlocks it, takes out three prints.)
JOE: I dunna reckon much ter these.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Nor me neither. An’ how much has ter gen for them apiece?
MINNIE: That was twenty-five pounds. They’re beautiful prints.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I dunna believe a word tha says.
MINNIE: I’ll show you the bill. My master’s a collector, and he picked them for me. He says they’re well worth the money. And I like them.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, I niver seed such a job in my life. T-t-t-t! Well, a’ I can say is, I hope tha’ll niver come ter want. Throwin’ good money i’ th’ gutter like this. Nay, I feel fair bad. Nay! T-t-t-t! Such tricks! And such bits o’ dirty paper!
JOE: I’d rather ha’e the Co-op almanack.
MRS GASCOIGNE: So would I, any day! What dost say to’t, our Luther?
LUTHER: ‘Er does as ‘er likes.
MINNIE: I had a lovely time with Mr Westlake, choosing them at the dealer’s. He is clever.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha towd him tha wanted to get rid o’ thy money, did ter?
MINNIE: No — I said I wanted some pictures for the parlour, and asked him if he’d help me choose.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Good money thrown away. Maybe the very bread of your children.
MINNIE: Nay, that’s Luther’s duty to provide.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, a’ I can say is, I hope you may never come ter want. If our Luther died . . .
MINNIE: I should go back to work.
MRS GASCOIGNE: But what if tha’d three or four children?
MINNIE: A hundred and twenty pounds wouldn’t make much odds then.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, a’ I can say, I hope tha’lt niver live ter rue the day.
JOE: What dost think on ‘er, Luther?
LUTHER: Nay, she’s done as she liked with her own.
MINNIE (emptying her purse in her lap): I’ve got just seventeen shillings. You drew your strike pay yesterday. How much have you got of that, Luther?
LUTHER: Three bob.
MINNIE: And do you want to keep it?
LUTHER: Ah.
MINNIE: Very well . . . I shall spend this seventeen shillings till it’s gone, and then we shall have to live on soup-tickets.
MRS GASCOIGNE: I’ll back my life!
JOE: And who’ll fetch the soup?
MINNIE: Oh, I shall. I’ve been thinking, that big jug will do nicely. I’m in the same boat as other men’s wives now, and so I must do the same.
JOE: They’ll gi’e you strap at West’s.
MINNIE: I’m not going to run up bills, no, I’m not. I’ll go to the free teas, and fetch soup, an’ with ten shillings a week we shall manage.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Well, that’s one road, lass.
MINNIE: It’s the only one. And now, if he can provide, he must, and if he can’t, he must tell me so, and I’ll go back into service, and not be a burden to him.
MRS GASCOIGNE: High and mighty, high and mighty! We’ll see, my lass; we’ll see.
MINNIE: That’s all we can do.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Tha doesna care how he takes it.
MINNIE: The prints belong to both of us. (Hands them to LUTHER.) You haven’t said if you like them yet.
LUTHER (taking them, suddenly rams them in the fire): Tha can go to hell.
MINNIE (with a cry): Ah! — that’s my ninety pounds gone. (Tries to snatch them out.)
MRS GASCOIGNE (beginning to cry): Come, Joe, let’s go; let’s go, my lad. I’ve seen as much this day as ever my eyes want to see. Let’s go, my lad. (Gets up, beginning to tie on her bonnet.)
MINNIE (white and intense, to LUTHER): Should you like to throw my ring after them? It’s all I’ve got left. (She holds out her hand — he flings it from him.)
LUTHER: Yi, what do I care what I do! (Clenching his fists as if he would strike her.) — what do I! — what do I — !
MRS GASCOIGNE (putting on her shawl): A day’s work — a day’s work! Ninety pound! Nay — nay, oh, nay — nay, oh, nay — nay! Let’s go, Joe, my lad. Eh, our Luther, our Luther! Let’s go, Joe. Come.
JOE: Ah, I’ll come, Mother.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Luther!
LUTHER: What?
MRS GASCOIGNE: It’s a day’s work, it is, wi’ thee. Eh dear! Come, let’s go, Joe. Let’s go whoam.
LUTHER: An’ I’ll go.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Dunna thee do nowt as ter’ll repent of, Luther — dunna thee. It’s thy mother axes thee. Come, Joe.
MRS GASCOIGNE goes out, followed by JOE. LUTHER stands with face averted from his wife; mutters something, reaches for his cap, goes out. MINNIE stands with her hand on the mantelpiece.
CURTAIN
ACT IV
The following morning — about 5 a.m. A candle is burning.
MINNIE sits by the fire in a dressing-gown. She is weeping. A knock, and MRS GASCOIGNE’S voice. MINNIE goes to open the door; re-enters with her mother-in-law, the latter with a big brown shawl over her head.
MRS GASCOIGNE: Is Luther a-whoam?
MINNIE: No — he’s not been in all night.
MRS GASCOIGNE: T-t-t-t! Now whereiver can they be? Joe’s not in neither.
MINNIE: Isn’t he?
MRS GASCOIGNE: No. He said he might be late, so I went to bed, and slept a bit uneasy-like till about four o’clock. Then I wakes up a’ of a sudden, an’ says: “I’m by mysen i’ th’ house!” It gave me such a turn I daresn’t shout. So I gets me up, an’ goes ter his room, an’ he’d niver bin i’ bed a’ night. Well, I went down, but no signs nowhere. An’ ‘im wi’ a broken arm. An’ I listened an’ I listened — an’ then methinks I heered a gun go off. I felt as if I should die if I stopped by mysen another minute. So I on’s wi’ my shawl an’ nips down here. There’s not a soul astir nowhere. I a’most dropped when I seed your light. Hasn’t Luther bin in a’ night, dost say?
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 724