You’ve got a long way to go,”
MRS SMALLEY (singing in a masculine voice):
“Before you get hold of the donkey’s tether
You’ve got a long way to go.”
BAKER (singing in a fine bass):
“If I had an ass and he wouldn’t go,
Would I wallop him? Oh, dear no!
I’d give him some corn and say ‘Gee whow,
Neddy, stand still while I mount, oh ho!’“
MRS SMALLEY: He’s the donkey.
BAKER: Who doesn’t make an ass of himself sometimes?
MRS SMALLEY: And we’ve got to give him some corn.
BAKER: For you’ll never catch him to get hold of his tail — salt’s no good.
MRS SMALLEY: How much corn? Tell her.
BAKER: Two hundred — and fifty — golden grains. No more.
RACHEL: What’s up with him to-night?
MRS SMALLEY: Oh, he’s had a drop, an’ it always sets him on edge. He’s like a razor. When he’s had a drop, if you stroke him you cut yourself a-two.
RACHEL: Goodness!
BAKER: Rachel, I’d sell my immortal soul for two hundred — and fifty — golden sovereigns.
RACHEL: I’m not buying immortal souls, thanks.
BAKER: With this (He spreads out his hands.) — this paper and string to wrap it in.
RACHEL: An’ a nice parcel of goods you are!
BAKER: I’m a lucky bag, Rachel. You don’t know all that’s in me, yet.
RACHEL: And what is that, pray?
BAKER: I don’t know myself. But you shall have leave to rummage me. (He throws open his arms.) Look! (He rises from his chair, as it were superbly. He is a fine, portly, not unhandsome man. He strikes a “superb” attitude.) Look, Rachel. For two hundred and fifty pounds, three months bill, I am (He bows.) your slave. You shall (He speaks with cynical sincerity.) bring down my head as low as you like (He bows low.), I swear it, and I never swore a lie.
RACHEL: But what do you want two hundred and fifty pounds for?
HARRY (entering): Has Nurse come?
BAKER: Not yet. Are you going to finish your glass? It has taken me all my time to stop the women sipping from it.
RACHEL: Story! You know I wouldn’t —
BAKER: Hush! Don’t be rash now, or you’ll hate me to-morrow.
RACHEL: And should you care?
BAKER: I am willing to give you full rights over my immortal soul and this paper and string —
MRS SMALLEY: For two hundred down —
BAKER (bowing — then looking to RACHEL): And fifty, Mrs Smalley.
RACHEL: What do you think of it, Susy? Is it a bargain?
BAKER (setting his cap on the back of his head and pulling on a large overcoat — he is well dressed): We have not struck hands yet.
MRS SMALLEY (to RACHEL): What do you say?
RACHEL: Nay, I want to hear what you say.
MRS SMALLEY: I’m going to say nowt, yet a while —
RACHEL: Well, we’ll see. (She pulls her shawl over her head to follow him.)
BAKER: Nay — I’m going down Northrop — on business.
RACHEL: Wasn’t you coming up?
BAKER: To the vicarage? I had this to tell you; that is all.
RACHEL: Well, I must say — but come up just for —
BAKER: Not for a moment, Rachel. I am going down Northrop.
MRS SMALLEY: It’s no good you saying nothing, Rachel. You might as well save your breath.
BAKER (smiling to RACHEL): You hear? I’ll see you in the morning. Good night all.
Exit BAKER.
RACHEL (looking after him): I hate him.
MRS SMALLEY: I’m going home.
She hurries out. There is an awkward pause. HARRY sits bending over the fire.
RACHEL: How is your mother?
HARRY: Same.
RACHEL: Who’s with her?
HARRY: Dad.
RACHEL: Where’s Patty?
HARRY: Cupboard.
RACHEL: When do you expect Nurse?
HARRY: Dunno.
RACHEL: Have you been drinking whisky? (No answer.) Are you going to leave these glasses for Nurse to see? (No answer.) Are you going to let her see you drinking? (No answer.) Well, I do reckon you might speak to a body. I’ve not spoke to you for a week — hardly seen you. I can see you in your garden from the vicarage front bedrooms. I often watch you. Do you want your glass?
HARRY: Gi’e’s it here!
RACHEL: You might say thank you. Job Arthur Bowers wants me to marry him. And I shouldn’t be surprised if I did. (She cries.)
HARRY: Well, tha nedna scraight.
RACHEL: No — I mun only cry when I’m by myself. (Sobs.) I’m sure I’m sobbing half the night. (She cries.) Do you sleep bad? You do get up early — I can see your candle at half-past three, and you don’t know how it frightens me.
HARRY: What’s it frighten thee for?
RACHEL: I don’t know. I feel frightened, for you seem so funny nowadays.
HARRY: ‘As ter on’y just foun’ it out?
RACHEL: You know I’ve told you about it many a time.
HARRY: A sight too often.
RACHEL: You are horrid. What have I done? Tell me.
HARRY: I’m non goin’ to be made shift of. Tha’rt non goin’ ter ma’e a spitton of me, ter spit the taste of somebody else out of thy mouth into.
RACHEL: Well, if I’ve been hateful, you’ve drove me to it — haven’t you?
HARRY: I’ve told thee, I dunna want thee.
RACHEL: An’ I went into service, so’s I’d have something to do — an’ so’s I should be near — when —
HARRY: Go on — an’ so’s — an’ so’s an’ so’s — I’m thy spitton, tha can spit owt inter me.
RACHEL: You’re right, you’re full o’ sawdust.
HARRY (showing his teeth): What?
RACHEL: Sawdust, like a dummy. You’ve no more life in you.
HARRY (in a passion): What! What!
RACHEL: Sawdust.
HARRY (springing and seizing her by the shoulders): I’ll settle thee!
RACHEL: You’ve been drinking.
HARRY (shouting): I’ll settle thee, if I hang for it!
RACHEL: You’re hurting me!
HARRY (quietly): Come here. (He binds her in her large shawl.)
RACHEL: Oh! What are you doing?
HARRY: I’ll ha’e thee now, I will. (He seats her in the big armchair, strapping her with a leather belt he takes from his waist.)
RACHEL (quietly): Have you gone mad?
HARRY: Now then — answer me! Did ter court Bill Naylor a’ the time as thou wert goin’ wi’ me?
RACHEL: No.
HARRY (his fist close to her eyes — loudly): Trewth!
RACHEL: Yes.
HARRY: Did ter tell him I used ter shout out that somebody wor coming if thou wanted to kiss me?
RACHEL: Yes.
HARRY: An’ as I was allers swallerin’ my spittle for fright?
RACHEL: Yes.
HARRY: An’ I wor like a girl, as dursn’t look thee atween the eyes, for all I was worth?
RACHEL: Yes.
HARRY: An’ dursn’t I?
RACHEL: Yes — an’ don’t. (She closes her eyes.)
HARRY: What! An’ all t’other things about me as the pit was full of?
RACHEL: Oh, no! Oh, no!
HARRY: Yes, tha did!
RACHEL: No, oh no, Harry!
HARRY: An’ are ter courtin’ Job Arthur Bowers?
RACHEL: Oh!
HARRY: Scream, an’ I’ll squeeze thy head again’ that chair-back till it cracks like a nut.
RACHEL (whimpering): Oh dear, oh dear.
HARRY: It is “oh dear” — an’ it ‘as been for me “oh dear”. Listen ‘ere, tha brazend hussy. Tha keeps thy face shut when tha comes near me. Dost hear?
RACHEL: Yes.
HARRY: None o’ thy cheek, not another word, in future — or I’ll — what?
RACHEL: No.
HARRY: An’ dunna touch me till tha’rt axed. Not so much as wi’ thy frock. Dost hear?
RACHEL: Yes.
HARRY: What dost hear?
RACHEL: I mustn’t touch you.
HARRY: Not till thou’rt axed. An’ lu’ thee here, my lady — I s’ll brain thee if tha says a word to me — sithee? (He thrusts his fist in her face.)
RACHEL: Somebody will come — let me go, let me go!
HARRY: An’ what I’ve said, I mean — drunk or sover. Sithee?
RACHEL: Yes, Harry! Oh, let me go.
HARRY: I’ll let thee go. (He does so, slowly.) An’ tha can go wi’ who tha likes, an’ marry who tha likes, but if tha says a word about me, I’ll come for thee. There! (He unbinds her. She lays her hand on his sleeve.) No! (He shakes her off. She rises and stands dejectedly before him.) I hate thee now enough to strangle thee.
RACHEL (bursting into tears): Oh, you are —
HARRY: Now go wi’ who tha likes — get off.
RACHEL: You are —
HARRY: I want none o’ thee — go!
She is departing.
An’ ta’e thy shawl wi’ thee.
She, weeping, picks up her shawl.
An’ lap it round thee — it’s a raw night.
She does so. He speaks gently now.
Now go.
Exit RACHEL. HARRY pours himself another glass of whisky. He goes to the cupboard.
Patty! Pat!
He puts his face caressingly among the bird’s feathers.
We’ll settle her Pat — eh? We’ll stop her gallop. Hey, Pat!
He tosses the bird into the air wildly.
CURTAIN
SCENE II
A few moments later. The road just outside the HEMSTOCKS’. Deep darkness: two cottage lights in the background. In the foreground, a large white swing gate leading from the farmyard into the road, a stile beside the gate. MRS SMALLEY leans against the big white gatepost. Enter RACHEL, drying her tears, from the background. She steps through the stile. SUSY moves.
RACHEL: Oh! Oh! Oh Harry!
MRS SMALLEY: It’s only me; shut up.
RACHEL: Oh, you did give me a turn, Susy!
MRS SMALLEY: Whatever’s up?
RACHEL: Nothing. Who are you looking for?
MRS SMALLEY: Nobody.
RACHEL: Has Job Arthur gone?
MRS SMALLEY: You saw him go.
RACHEL: Not that I care.
MRS SMALLEY: I bet you don’t. You carry on as if you don’t care. You do. You needn’t pretend to be so mighty struck on our Harry, you know it’s all sham.
RACHEL: It’s not, Susy. There’s no sham about it; I wish there was. He’s got his eye on Nurse, it’s my belief.
MRS SMALLEY: An’ she’s got her eye on my mother’s money, I know. She’s sniffing like a cat over a mouse hole, an’ cottoning on to our Harry.
RACHEL: She’s deep, she is — an’ he’d be as big as a lord for at the bottom he’s that stuck-up he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
MRS SMALLEY: I believe she knows something about the will.
RACHEL: Well, surely —
MRS SMALLEY: An’ from summat as my mother let drop, I’d be bound she’s in it, wi’ our Harry.
RACHEL: His mother always made me cheap in his eyes.
MRS SMALLEY: If I could get to know —
RACHEL: Doesn’t your Harry know?
MRS SMALLEY: How should I know what he knows?
RACHEL: My father’s pining for Nurse, the old fool. I wish he’d get her. His money might get her. I’ll buck him up.
MRS SMALLEY: I’ll get in her way wi’ our Harry as much as I can.
RACHEL: Alright. You are a bit gone on Job Arthur, aren’t you?
MRS SMALLEY: He should ha’ married me, by rights, twelve years back.
RACHEL: There’s something fascinating about him. Does he really want £250?
MRS SMALLEY: Yes.
RACHEL: I believe my father would give it me, if I got married to please him.
MRS SMALLEY: Alright, there’s your chance then.
RACHEL: You needn’t be nasty, Susy. I don’t want the chance.
MRS SMALLEY: You dodge round too many corners, like a ferret, you do.
RACHEL: At any rate, I’m not waiting for somebody to die and leave me bait to chuck to a fat fist of a fellow.
MRS SMALLEY: You’d better mind what you’re saying, Rachel Wilcox.
RACHEL: I don’t care about you. So there.
MRS SMALLEY: Doesn’t ‘er though? What about our Harry? I’ll let him know a thing or two.
RACHEL: It’s you as has been saying things, I know. You’ve been telling him about Job Arthur Bowers.
MRS SMALLEY: Oh, have I? You’re mighty clever.
RACHEL: You don’t need to be clever to see through you. But I’ll make you pay for it, my lady.
MRS SMALLEY: What? Come out here —
RACHEL: There’s the Baron — an’ they don’t know I’m out!
She runs into hiding as a lantern appears down the lane. SUSY draws after her.
SUSY: What’s he after?
RACHEL: Lovers. They hunt ‘em out every Monday night. Shut up now. (In a whisper.) Does my white apron show?
BARON: We haf done good work this night.
BARONESS (tall and spare, in an antique cloak and bonnet): Seven couples, Baron — and we have only been out an hour. Isn’t it terrible!
BARON: These miners are not men — they are animals that prowl by night.
BARONESS: The girls are worse, with their faces of brass. It is they who entice the young men into these naughty holes and crannies.
BARON: But if a man haf honour, will he not woo a maiden in her father’s house, in the presence of her family?
BARONESS: This is a parish of sin, Baron, the people love sin.
BARON: Defiant in sin, they are! But I will overthrow them. I will drive them before me into the pit.
BARONESS: To think of that brazen besom telling us to go home and go to bed —
BARON: And the man — ah, infamous, gross insult! And coward, to revile me that I have no child.
BARONESS: If they had a few less — and they born of sin — the low women! That is the house of the woman Hemstock. Have you seen her?
BARON: Not yet. I will not bury her, heathen and blasphemous woman. She shall not soil my graveyard of good dead. And those, her men folk, obstreperous and enemies of God, I will bow low their necks —
BARONESS: Hush, there are some — I believe there are — behind the gate —
BARON: More? Ah, misery, more than linked worms! Where? My dull eyes!
BARONESS: There — behind the gatepost —
BARON (holding aloft the candle): Lovers, if you be there, why do you suck at sin? Is this honour, you man? There is no one there, Baroness.
BARONESS: Yes, Baron, yes. I can see her apron. Who are you? Come out of there. You, girl, I see you. Come out, for shame. You do not know what you are doing; or, if you do, you are the depth of wickedness. (A titter is heard.)
BARON: Where is the man? Show yourself, sir. Let me see the man. You lurk, sir, in a hole like a rat. Ah, the disgrace of mankind.
BARONESS: What is going to become of you, girl? Go home, before it is too late. Go home and learn to do your housework.
BARON: You press into the boughs of the trees, but the boughs are the little arms of God. You hide youselves deep in the darkness, which is but the pupil of the eye of God. Ah, like a hot spark you fret the eye of God with your lust.
BARONESS: You will rue it this time next year, I tell you.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 742