Lydia!
WATTS
Ellen! Oh, Modesty, Modesty. [He sinks down covering his face with his hand.]
MRS. C.
Why, it’s Ellen Terry dressed up as a man. How becoming trousers are, to be sure! I have never, never, seen anything so exquisite as Ellen in the arms of a youth among the raspberry canes.
WATTS [starting up]
In the arms of a youth! In trousers in the arms of a youth!
My wife in trousers in the arms of a youth! Unmaidenly!
Unchaste! Impure! Out of my sight! Out of my life!
[Enter MR. CRAIG.]
CRAIG
And into my arms. Come along, Nell. It’s time we were off. You can’t keep a horse tied up at the gate all day in this weather.
MR. C.
I slept, and had a vision in my sleep. I thought I saw a motor omnibus advancing down the glades of Farringford.
What colour is your horse, young Sir?
CRAIG
A strawberry roan.
MR. C.
Then my dream has come — more or less — true. The omnibus was yellow.
WATTS
Miserable girl — if girl I still can call you. I could have forgiven you much but not this. Had you gone to meet him as a maiden, in a veil, or dressed in white, it would have been different. But trousers — no — check trousers; no.
Go then. Vanish with your paramour to lead a life of corruption.
CRAIG
Hang it all, Sir. I have a large house in Gordon Square.
WATTS
Go then to Gordon Square. Found a society in which the sanctity of the marriage vow is no longer respected, where veils are rent and trousers, check trousers —
ELLEN
O, I was forgetting. [She pulls a long veil out of her pocket.] Here’s your veil. I intend to wear trousers in future. I never could understand the sense of wearing veils in a climate like this.
WATTS
Unhappy maiden. You have no ideals. No imagination.
No religion. No sense of the symbolical in art. The veil which you cast asunder symbolises purity, modesty, chastity —
LORD T.
— and the fertility of fish. Don’t forget that, Watts.
ELLEN [To CRAIG]
I don’t understand a word they’re saying. But then I never did. Can’t we escape to some place where people talk sense?
WATTS
Go to Bloomsbury. In that polluted atmosphere spread your doctrines, propagate your race, wear your trousers.
But there will come a day [he raises his eyes and clasps his hands] when the voice of purity, of conscience, of highmindedness, of nobility, and truth, will again be heard in the land.
MR. C. [gazing in front of him as if at a vision]
The reference is to Middleton Murry and the Adelphi. All expectations have been surpassed. You are urgently advised to secure advertising space without delay. Highmindedness pays.
WATTS
Thank God for that! It was not so in my day. To this Middleton Murry, then, I bequeath my mantle. [He flourishes the veil.] As for you [turning upon ELLEN and MR. CRAIG] guilty, unbridled, unhallowed couple, fly!
[The door opens, and undertakers carry in two coffins which they put down in the middle of the room.]
MRS. C.
They have come. They have come!
MR. C.
At last, at last! We start for India, [MR. and MRS. CAMERON clasp hands and stand by the coffins.]
MR. AND MRS. C.
We start for India. We go to seek a land less corrupted by hypocrisy, where nature prevails. A land where the sun always shines. Where philosophers speak the truth. Where men are naked. Where women are beautiful. Where damsels dance among the currant bushes — It is time — It is time. We go; we go.
ELLEN AND MR. CRAIG
And we go too. We go to a land —
ELLEN
Oh I’ve had enough of this style of talking! The fact is we’re going to Bloomsbury — number forty-six Gordon Square, W.C. 1. There won’t be no veils there! Not if I know it!
MR. C. [walking slowly out of the room with his hands stretched before him]
Lydia — Lydia — I come — I come!
MRS. C. [running back into the room]
Wait, wait. I have left my camera behind. [She takes it and holds it towards ELLEN TERRY.] It is my wedding gift, Ellen. Take my lens. I bequeath it to my descendents. See that it is always slightly out of focus. Farewell! Farewell!
[Exeunt MR. and MRS. CAMERON and ELLEN and CRAIG.
A noise of shouting is heard, which dies away and grows again. Excited servants rush in.]
SERVANTS
It is the Queen, my Lord! She has driven over from Balmoral to see you.
[HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA is wheeled in in an arm chair.]
WATTS [falling on his knees at her feet]
The Utmost for the Highest!
LORD T. [TO the audience, very grimly ]
The comedy is over.
[LORD TENNYSON falls on his knees. Several gramophones play “God Save the Queen,” and the curtain falls.]
CURTAIN
FRESHWATER - 1935 VERSION
ACT I.
A studio, MRS. CAMERON washing MR. CAMERON’S head.
ELLEN TERRY on the models throne posing to WATTS for Modesty at the feet of Mammon.
MRS. C.
Sit still, Charles! Sit still! Soap in your eyes? Nonsense. Water down your back? Tush! Surely you can put up with a little discomfort in the cause of art!
MR. C.
The sixth time in eight months! The sixth time in eight months! Whenever we start for India Julia washes my head. And yet we never do start for India.
I sometimes think we never shall start for India.
MRS. C.
Nonsense, Charles. Control yourself, Charles. Remember what Alfred Tennyson said of you: A philosopher with his beard dipped in moonlight. A chimney-sweep with his beard dipped in soot.
MR. C.
Ah, if we could but go to India. There is no washing in India. There beards are white, for the moon for ever shines, on youth, on truth, in India. And here we dally, frittering away our miserable lives in the withered grasp of —
[MRS. C. washes vigorously.]
WATTS [looking round]
Courage, my old friend. Courage. The Utmost for the Highest, Cameron. Always remember that, [to ELLEN] Don’t move, Ellen. Keep yourself perfectly still. I am struggling with the great toe of Mammon.
I have been struggling for six months. It is still out of drawing. But I say to myself, The Utmost for the Highest. Keep perfectly still.
[Enter TENNYSON]
TENN.
The son of man has nowhere to lay his head!
MR. C.
Washing day at Farringford too, Alfred?
TENN.
Twenty earnest youths from Clerkenwell are in the shrubbery; six American professors are in the summer house; the bathroom is occupied by the Ladies Poetry Circle from Ohio. The son of man has nowhere to lay his head.
MR. C.
Loose your mind from the affairs of the present. Seek truth where truth lies hidden. Follow the everlasting will o’ the wisp. Oh don’t tug my beard! [MRS. C. releases him.] Heaven be praised! At two thirty we start for India, [MR. C. walks away to the window.]
TENN.
Upon my word! You don’t say you’re really going?
MRS. C. [wringing out her sponge]
Yes, Alfred. At two thirty we start for India — that’s to say if the coffins have come. [MRS. C. gives the sponge to MARY.] Take my sponge, girl; now go and see if the coffins have come.
MARY.
If the coffins have come! Why, it’s the Earl of Dudley who’s come. He’s waiting for me in the kitchen. He’s not much to look at but he’s a deal sight better than coffins any day.
MRS. C.
We can’t start for India without our coffins. For the eighth time I have ordered the coffins, and
for the eighth time the coffins have not come. But without her coffin Julia Cameron will not start for India. Think, Alfred. When we lie dead under the Southern Cross my head will be pillowed upon your immortal poem In Memoriam. Maud will lie upon my heart.
Look — Orion glitters in the southern sky. The scent of tulip-trees is wafted through the open window. The silence is only broken by the sobs of my husband and the occasional howl of a solitary tiger. And then what is this — what infamy do I perceive? An ant, Alfred, a white ant. They are advancing in hordes from the jungle. Alfred, they are devouring Maud!
TENN.
God bless my soul! Devouring Maud? The white ants! My ewe lamb! That’s true. You can’t go to India without your coffins. And how am I going to read Maud to you when you’re in India? Still — what’s the time? Twelve fifteen? I’ve read it in less. Let’s begin. I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is ask’d her, answers “Death.”
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life — O father! O God! —
MRS. C.
That’s the very attitude I want! Sit still, Alfred. Don’t blink your eyes. Charles, you’re sitting on my lens.
Get up.
[MRS. C. fixes her tripod, TENNYSON goes on reading Maud.]
ELLEN [stretching her arms]
Oh, Signor, can’t I get down? I am so stiff.
WATTS
Stiff, Ellen? Why you’ve only kept that pose for four hours this morning.
ELLEN
Only four hours! It seems like centuries. Anyhow I’m awfully stiff. And I would so like to go for a bathe.
It’s a lovely morning. The bees on the thorn, [ELLEN clambers down off the models throne and stretches herself.]
WATTS
You have given four hours to the service of art, Ellen, and are already tired. I have given seventy-seven years to the service of art and I am not tired yet.
ELLEN
O Lor’!
WATTS
If you must use that vulgar expression, Ellen, please sound the final d.
ELLEN [standing beside TENNYSON]
Oh Lord, Lord, Lord!
TENN.
I am not yet a Lord, damsel; but who knows? That may lie on the lap of the Queen. Meanwhile, sit on my lap.
[ELLEN sits on TENNYSON’S knee.]
MRS. C.
Another picture! A better picture! Poetry in the person of Alfred Tennyson adoring the Muse.
ELLEN
But I’m Modesty, MRS. Cameron; Signor said so. I’m Modesty crouching at the feet of Mammon, at least I was ten minutes ago.
MRS. C.
Yes. But now you’re the Muse. But the Muse must have wings, [MRS. C. rummages frantically in a chest. She flings out various garments on the floor.] Towels, sheets, pyjamas, trousers, dressing gowns, bracesbraces but no wings. Trousers but no wings. What a satire upon modern life! Braces but no wings! [MRS. C. goes to the door and shouts:] Wings! Wings! Wings! What d’you say, Mary. There are no wings? Then kill the turkey! [MRS. C. shuffles among the clothes.She exits.]
TENN. [TO ELLEN]
You’re a very beautiful wench, Ellen!
ELLEN
And you’re a very great poet, Mr. Tennyson.
TENN.
Did you ever see a poet’s skin? [He pulls up his sleeve and shows her his arm. ]
ELLEN
Like a crumpled rose leaf!
TENN.
Ah, but you should see me in*my bath! I have thighs like alabaster!
ELLEN
I sometimes think, Mr. Tennyson, that you are the most sensible of them all.
TENN. [kissing her]
I am sensible to beauty in all its forms. That is my function as Poet Laureate.
ELLEN
Tell me, Mr. Tennyson, have you ever picked primroses in a lane?
TENN.
Scores of times.
ELLEN
And did Lady Tennyson ever jump over your head on a horse?
TENN.
Emily jump? Emily jump? She has lain on her sofa for fifty years and I should be surprised, nay I should be shocked, if she ever got up again.
ELLEN
Then I suppose you were never in love. Nobody ever jumped over your head and dropped a white rose into your hand and galloped away?
TENN.
Hallam never galloped. Hi had a bad seat on horseback. My life has been singularly free from amorous excitement of the kind you describe. Tell me more.
ELLEN
Well you see, Mr. Tennyson, I was walking in a lane the other day picking primroses when —
MRS. C. [re-entering]
Here’s the turkey wings.
ELLEN
Oh, MRS. Cameron, have you killed the turkey? And I was so fond of that bird.
MRS. C.
The turkey is happy, Ellen. The turkey has become part and parcel of my immortal art. Now, Ellen.
Mount this chair. Throw your arms out. Look upwards. Alfred, you too — look up!
TENN.
To Nell!
WATTS
I do not altogether approve of the composition of this piece, Julia.
MRS. C.
The Utmost for the Highest, Signor. Now, keep perfectly still. Only for fifteen minutes.
MR. C. [looking at the marmoset]
Life is a dream.
TENN.
Rather a wet one, Charles.
MR. C.
All things that have substance seem to me unreal.
What are these? [He picks up the braces.] Braces.
Fetters that bind us to the wheel of life. What are these? [He picks up the trousers.] Trousers. Fig leaves that conceal the truth. What is truth? Moonshine.
Where does the moon shine for ever? India. Come, my marmoset, let us go to India. Let us go to India, the land of our dreams. [He walks to the window. A whistle sounds in the garden.]
ELLEN
I come! I come! [She jumps down and rushes out of the room.]
MRS. C.
She’s spoilt my picture!
TENN.
My picture too.
MRS. C.
The girl’s mad. The girl’s gone clean out of her wits.
What can she want to go bathing for when she might be sitting to me?
TENN. [opens Maud and begins reading]
Well:
Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone —
WATTS
Alfred, tell me. Is your poetry based on fact?
TENN.
Certainly it is. I never describe a daisy without putting it under the microscope first. Listen.
For her feet have touch’d the meadows And left the daisies rosy.
Why did I say “rosy”? Because it is a fact —
MR. C.
I thought I saw something which many people would call a fact pass the window just now. A fact in trousers; a fact in side whiskers; a handsome fact, as facts go. A young man, in fact.
MRS. C.
A young man! Just what I want. A young man with noble thighs, ambrosial locks and eyes of gold. [She goes to the window and calls out:] Young man! Young man! I want you to come and sit to me for Sir Isumbras at the Ford. [She exits. A donkey brays. She comes back into the room.] That’s not a man. That’s a donkey. Still, to the true artist, one fact is much the same as another. A fact is a fact; art is art; a donkey’s a donkey. [She looks out of the window.] Stand still, donkey; think, Ass, you are carrying St. Christopher upon your back. Look up, Ass. Cast your eyes to Heaven. Stand absolutely still. There! I say to the Ass, look up. And the Ass looks down. The donkey is eating thistles on the lawn!
TENN.
Yes. There was a damned ass praising Browning the other day. Browning, I tell you. But I ask you, could Browning have writt
en:
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, The murmuring of innumerable bees.
Or this, perhaps the loveliest line in the language — The mellow ouzel fluting on the lawn? [The donkey brays.] Donkeys at Dimbola! Geese at Farringford!
The son of man has nowhere to lay his head!
[WATTS slowly advances into the middle.]
WATTS
Praise be to the Almighty Architect — under Providence, the toe of Mammon is now, humanly speaking, in drawing. Yes, in drawing. [He turns to them in ecstasy.] Ah, my dear friends and fellow workers in the cause of truth which is beauty, beauty which is truth, after months of work, months of hard work, the great toe of Mammon is now in drawing. I have prayed and I have worked; I have worked and I have prayed; and humanly speaking, under Providence, the toe of Mammon is now in drawing.
Complete Works of Virginia Woolf Page 290