OLIVER: We are going to see you again, aren’t we?
ANABEL (after a pause): Yes, I hope so, Oliver.
OLIVER: How have you been these two years — well? — happy?
ANABEL: No, neither. How have you?
OLIVER: Yes, fairly happy. Have you been ill?
ANABEL: Yes, in France I was very ill.
OLIVER: Your old neuritis?
ANABEL: No. My chest. Pneumonia — oh, a complication.
OLIVER: How sickening! Who looked after you? Is it better?
ANABEL: Yes, it’s a great deal better.
OLIVER: And what are you doing in England — working?
ANABEL: No, not much. — I won’t keep the car here: good-bye.
GERALD: Oh, it’s alright.
OLIVER: But, Anabel — we must fix a meeting. I say, wait just a moment. Could I call on your people? Go into town with me one day. I don’t know whether Gerald intends to see you — whether he intends to ask you to Lilley Close.
GERALD: I —
ANABEL: He’s no need. I’m fixed up there already.
GERALD: What do you mean?
ANABEL: I am at Lilley Close every day — or most days — to work with your sister Winifred in the studio.
GERALD: What? — why, how’s that?
ANABEL: Your father asked me. My father was already giving her some lessons.
GERALD: And you’re at our house every day?
ANABEL: Most days.
GERALD: Well, I’m — well, I’ll be — you managed it very sharp, didn’t you? I’ve only been away a fortnight.
ANABEL: Your father asked me — he offered me twelve pounds a month — I wanted to do something.
GERALD: Oh yes, but you didn’t hire yourself out at Lilley Close as a sort of upper servant just for twelve pounds a month.
ANABEL: You’re wrong — you’re wrong. I’m not a sort of upper servant at all — not at all.
GERALD: Oh yes, you are, if you’re paid twelve pounds a month — three pounds a week. That’s about what Father’s sick-nurse gets, I believe. You’re a kind of upper servant, like a nurse. You don’t do it for twelve pounds a month. You can make twelve pounds in a day, if you like to work at your little models: I know you can sell your little statuette things as soon as you make them.
ANABEL: But I can’t make them. I can’t make them. I’ve lost the spirit — the joie de vivre — I don’t know what, since I’ve been ill. I tell you I’ve got to earn something.
GERALD: Nevertheless, you won’t make me believe, Anabel, that you’ve come and buried yourself in the provinces — such provinces — just to earn Father’s three pounds a week. Why don’t you admit it, that you came back to try and take up the old threads?
OLIVER: Why not, Gerald? Don’t you think we ought to take up the old threads?
GERALD: I don’t think we ought to be left without choice. I don’t think Anabel ought to come back and thrust herself on me — for that’s what it amounts to, after all — when one remembers what’s gone before.
ANABEL: I don’t thrust myself on you at all. I know I’m a fool, a fool, to come back. But I wanted to. I wanted to see you again. Now I know I’ve presumed. I’ve made myself cheap to you. I wanted to — I wanted to. And now I’ve done it, I won’t come to Lilley Close again, nor anywhere where you are. Tell your father I have gone to France again — it will be true.
GERALD: You play tricks on me — and on yourself. You know you do. You do it for the pure enjoyment of it. You’re making a scene here in this filthy market-place, just for the fun of it. You like to see these accursed colliers standing eyeing you, and squatting on their heels. You like to catch me out, here where I’m known, where I’ve been the object of their eyes since I was born. This is a great coup de main for you. I knew it the moment I saw you here.
OLIVER: After all, we are making a scene in the market-place. Get in, Anabel, and we’ll settle the dispute more privately. I’m glad you came back, anyhow. I’m glad you came right down on us. Get in, and let us run down to Whatmore.
ANABEL: No, Oliver. I don’t want to run down to Whatmore. I wanted to see you — I wanted to see Gerald — and I’ve seen him — and I’ve heard him. That will suffice me. We’ll make an end of the scene in the market-place. (She turns away.)
OLIVER: I knew it wasn’t ended. I knew she would come back and tell us she’d come. But she’s done her bit — now she’ll go again. My God, what a fool of a world! — You go on, Gerald — I’ll just go after her and see it out. (Calls.)One moment, Anabel.
ANABEL (calling): Don’t come, Oliver. (Turns.)
GERALD: Anabel! (Blows the horn of the motor car violently and agitatedly — she looks round — turns again as if frightened.) God damn the woman! (Gets down from the car.) Drive home for me, Oliver.
CURTAIN
SCENE II
WINIFRED’S studio at Lilley Close. ANABEL and WINIFRED working at a model in clay.
WINIFRED: But isn’t it lovely to be in Paris, and to have exhibitions, and to be famous?
ANABEL: Paris was a good place. But I was never famous.
WINIFRED: But your little animals and birds were famous. Jack said so. You know he brought us that bronze thrush that is singing, that is in his room. He has only let me see it twice. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. Oh, if I can do anything like that! — I’ve worshipped it, I have. Is it your best thing?
ANABEL: One of the best.
WINIFRED: It must be. When I see it, with its beak lifted, singing, something comes loose in my heart, and I feel as if I should cry, and fly up to heaven. Do you know what I mean? Oh, I’m sure you do, or you could never have made that thrush. Father is so glad you’ve come to show me how to work. He says now I shall have a life-work, and I shall be happy. It’s true, too.
ANABEL: Yes, till the life-work collapses.
WINIFRED: Oh, it can’t collapse. I can’t believe it could collapse. Do tell me about something else you made, which you loved — something you sculpted. Oh, it makes my heart burn to hear you! — Do you think I might call you Anabel? I should love to. You do call me Winifred already.
ANABEL: Yes, do.
WINIFRED: Won’t you tell me about something else you made — something lovely?
ANABEL: Well, I did a small kitten — asleep — with its paws crossed. You know, Winifred, that wonderful look that kittens have, as if they were blown along like a bit of fluff — as if they weighed nothing at all — just wafted about — and yet so alive — do you know — ?
WINIFRED: Darlings — darlings — I love them!
ANABEL: Well, my kitten really came off — it had that quality. It looked as if it had just wafted there.
WINIFRED: Oh, yes! — oh, I know! And was it in clay?
ANABEL: I cut it in soft grey stone as well. I loved my kitten. An Armenian bought her.
WINIFRED: And where is she now?
ANABEL: I don’t know — in Armenia, I suppose, if there is such a place. It would have to be kept under glass, because the stone wouldn’t polish — and I didn’t want it polished. But I dislike things under glass — don’t you?
WINIFRED: Yes, I do. We had a golden clock, but Gerald wouldn’t have the glass cover, and Daddy wouldn’t have it without. So now the clock is in Father’s room. Gerald often went to Paris. Oliver used to have a studio there. I don’t care much for painting — do you?
ANABEL: No. I want something I can touch, if it’s something outside me.
WINIFRED: Yes, isn’t it wonderful, when things are substantial. Gerald and Oliver came back yesterday from Yorkshire. You know we have a colliery there.
ANABEL: Yes, I believe I’ve heard.
WINIFRED: I want to introduce you to Gerald, to see if you like him. He’s good at the bottom, but he’s very overbearing and definite.
ANABEL: Is he?
WINIFRED: Terribly clever in business. He’ll get awfully rich.
ANABEL: Isn’t he rich enough already?
WINIFRED: Oh
yes, because Daddy is rich enough, really. I think if Gerald was a bit different, he’d be really nice. Now he’s so managing. It’s sickening. Do you dislike managing people, Anabel?
ANABEL: I dislike them extremely, Winifred.
WINIFRED: They’re such a bore.
ANABEL: What does Gerald manage?
WINIFRED: Everything. You know he’s revolutionized the collieries and the whole Company. He’s made a whole new thing of it, so modern. Father says he almost wishes he’d let it die out — let the pits be closed. But I suppose things must be modernized, don’t you think? Though it’s very unpeaceful, you know, really.
ANABEL: Decidedly unpeaceful, I should say.
WINIFRED: The colliers work awfully hard. The pits are quite wonderful now. Father says it’s against nature — all this electricity and so on. Gerald adores electricity. Isn’t it curious?
ANABEL: Very. How are you getting on?
WINIFRED: I don’t know. It’s so hard to make things balance as if they were alive. Where is the balance in a thing that’s alive?
ANABEL: The poise? Yes, Winifred — to me, all the secret of life is in that — just the — the inexpressible poise of a living thing, that makes it so different from a dead thing. To me it’s the soul, you know — all living things have it — flowers, trees as well. It makes life always marvellous.
WINIFRED: Ah, yes! — ah, yes! If only I could put it in my model.
ANABEL: I think you will. You are a sculptor, Winifred. — Isn’t there someone there?
WINIFRED (running to the door): Oh, Oliver!
OLIVER: Hello, Winnie! Can I come in? This is your sanctum: you can keep us out if you like.
WINIFRED: Oh, no. Do you know Miss Wrath, Oliver? She’s a famous sculptress.
OLIVER: Is she? We have met. — Is Winifred going to make a sculptress, do you think?
ANABEL: I do.
OLIVER: Good! I like your studio, Winnie. Awfully nice up here over the out-buildings. Are you happy in it?
WINIFRED: Yes, I’m perfectly happy — only I shall never be able to make real models, Oliver — it’s so difficult.
OLIVER: Fine room for a party — give us a studio party one day, Win, and we’ll dance.
WINIFRED (flying to him): Yes, Oliver, do let us dance. What shall we dance to?
OLIVER: Dance? — Dance Vigni-vignons — we all know that. Ready?
WINIFRED: Yes.
They begin to sing, dancing meanwhile, in a free little ballet-manner, a wine-dance, dancing separate and then together.
De terre en vigne
La voilà la jolie vigne,
Vigni-vignons — vignons le vin,
La voilà la jolie vigne au vin,
La voilà la jolie vigne.
OLIVER: Join in — join in, all.
ANABEL joins in; the three dance and move in rhythm.
WINIFRED: I love it — I love it! Do Ma capote à trois boutons — you know it, don’t you, Anabel? Ready — now —
They begin to dance to a quick little march-rhythm, all singing and dancing till they are out of breath.
OLIVER: Oh! — tired! — let us sit down.
WINIFRED: Oliver! — oh, Oliver! — I love you and Anabel.
OLIVER: Oh, Winifred, I brought you a present — you’ll love me more now.
WINIFRED: Yes, I shall. Do give it me.
OLIVER: I left it in the morning-room. I put it on the mantelpiece for you.
WINIFRED: Shall I go for it?
OLIVER: There it is, if you want it.
WINIFRED: Yes — do you mind? I won’t be long.
WINIFRED goes out.
OLIVER: She’s a nice child.
ANABEL: A very nice child.
OLIVER: Why did you come back, Anabel?
ANABEL: Why does the moon rise, Oliver?
OLIVER: For some mischief or other, so they say.
ANABEL: You think I came back for mischief’s sake?
OLIVER: Did you?
ANABEL: No.
OLIVER: Ah!
ANABEL: Tell me, Oliver, how is everything now? — how is it with you? — how is it between us all?
OLIVER: How is it between us all? — How isn’t it, is more the mark.
ANABEL: Why?
OLIVER: You made a fool of us.
ANABEL: Of whom?
OLIVER: Well — of Gerald particularly — and of me.
ANABEL: How did I make a fool of you, Oliver?
OLIVER: That you know best, Anabel.
ANABEL: No, I don’t know. Was it ever right between Gerald and me, all the three years we knew each other — we were together?
OLIVER: Was it all wrong?
ANABEL: No, not all. But it was terrible. It was terrible, Oliver. You don’t realize. You don’t realize how awful passion can be, when it never resolves, when it never becomes anything else. It is hate, really.
OLIVER: What did you want the passion to resolve into?
ANABEL: I was blinded — maddened. Gerald stung me and stung me till I was mad. I left him for reason’s sake, for sanity’s sake. We should have killed one another.
OLIVER: You stung him too, you know — and pretty badly, at the last: you dehumanized him.
ANABEL: When? When I left him, you mean?
OLIVER: Yes, when you went away with that Norwegian — playing your game a little too far.
ANABEL: Yes, I knew you’d blame me. I knew you’d be against me. But don’t you see, Oliver, you helped to make it impossible for us.
OLIVER: Did I? I didn’t intend to.
ANABEL: Ha, ha, Oliver! Your good intentions! They are too good to bear investigation, my friend. Ah, but for your good and friendly intentions —
OLIVER: You might have been alright?
ANABEL: No, no, I don’t mean that. But we were a vicious triangle, Oliver — you must admit it.
OLIVER: You mean my friendship with Gerald went against you?
ANABEL: Yes. And your friendship with me went against Gerald.
OLIVER: So I am the devil in the piece.
ANABEL: You see, Oliver, Gerald loved you far too well ever to love me altogether. He loved us both. But the Gerald that loved you so dearly, old, old friends as you were, and trusted you, he turned a terrible face of contempt on me. You don’t know, Oliver, the cold edge of Gerald’s contempt for me — because he was so secure and strong in his old friendship with you. You don’t know his sneering attitude to me in the deepest things — because he shared the deepest things with you. He had a passion for me. But he loved you.
OLIVER: Well, he doesn’t any more. We went apart after you had gone. The friendship has become almost casual.
ANABEL: You see how bitterly you speak.
OLIVER: Yet you didn’t hate me, Anabel.
ANABEL: No, Oliver — I was awfully fond of you. I trusted you — and I trust you still. You see I knew how fond Gerald was of you. And I had to respect this feeling. So I had to be aware of you: I had to be conscious of you: in a way, I had to love you. You understand how I mean? Not with the same fearful love with which I loved Gerald. You seemed to me warm and protecting — like a brother, you know — but a brother one loves.
OLIVER: And then you hated me?
ANABEL: Yes, I had to hate you.
OLIVER: And you hated Gerald?
ANABEL: Almost to madness — almost to madness.
OLIVER: Then you went away with that Norwegian. What of him?
ANABEL: What of him? Well, he’s dead.
OLIVER: Ah! That’s why you came back?
ANABEL: No, no. I came back because my only hope in life was in coming back. Baard was beautiful — and awful. You know how glisteningly blond he was. Oliver, have you ever watched the polar bears? He was cold as iron when it is so cold that it burns you. Coldness wasn’t negative with him. It was positive — and awful beyond expression — like the aurora borealis.
OLIVER: I wonder you ever got back.
ANABEL: Yes, so do I. I feel as if I’d fallen down a fi
ssure in the ice. Yet I have come back, haven’t I?
OLIVER: God knows! At least, Anabel, we’ve gone through too much ever to start the old game again. There’ll be no more sticky love between us.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 749