(ANABEL joins in; the three dance and move in rhythm.)
WINIFRED. I love it--I love it! Do _Ma capote a 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 mantel-piece
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. (Exit.)
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 realise. You don't realise 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 dehumanised 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 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 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: and 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 fissure 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.
ANABEL. No, I think there won't, either.
OLIVER. And what of Gerald?
ANABEL. I don't know. What do you think of him?
OLIVER. I can't think any more. I can only blindly go from day to
day, now.
ANABEL. So can I. Do you think I was wrong to come back? Do you
think I wrong Gerald?
OLIVER. No. I'm glad you came. But I feel I can't KNOW anything.
We must just go on.
ANABEL. Sometimes I feel I ought never to have come to Gerald again--
never--never--never.
OLIVER. Just left the gap?--Perhaps, if everything has to come
asunder. But I think, if ever there is to be life--hope,--then you
had to come back. I always knew it. There is something eternal
between you and him; and if there is to be any happiness, it depends
on that. But perhaps there is to BE no happiness--for our part of
the world.
ANABEL (after a pause). Yet I feel hope--don't you?
OLIVER. Yes, sometimes.
ANABEL. It seemed to me, especially that winter in Norway,--I can
hardly express it,--as if any moment life might give way under one,
like thin ice, and one would be more than dead. And then I knew my
only hope was here--the only hope.
OLIVER. Yes, I believe it. And I believe---
(Enter MRS. BARLOW.)
MRS. BARLOW. Oh, I wanted to speak to you, Oliver.
OLIVER. Shall I come across?
MRS. BARLOW. No, not now. I believe father is coming here with
Gerald.
OLIVER. Is he going to walk so far?
MRS. BARLOW. He will do it.--I suppose you know Oliver?
ANABEL. Yes, we have met before.
MRS. BARLOW (to OLIVER). You didn't mention it. Where have you met
Miss Wrath? She's been about the world, I believe.
ANABEL. About the world?--no, Mrs. Barlow. If one happens to know
Paris and London---
MRS. BARLOW. Paris and London! Well, I don't say you are all
br /> together an adventuress. My husband seems very pleased with you--
for Winifred's sake, I suppose--and he's wrapped up in Winifred.
ANABEL. Winifred is an artist.
MRS. BARLOW. All my children have the artist in them. They get it
from my family. My father went mad in Rome. My family is born with
a black fate--they all inherit it.
OLIVER. I believe one is master of one's fate sometimes, Mrs. Barlow.
There are moments of pure choice.
MRS. BARLOW. Between two ways to the same end, no doubt. There's no
changing the end.
OLIVER. I think there is.
MRS. BARLOW. Yes, you have a _parvenu's_ presumptuousness somewhere
about you.
OLIVER. Well, better than a blue-blooded fatalism.
MRS. BARLOW. The fate is in the blood: you can't change the blood.
(Enter WINIFRED.)
WINIFRED. Oh, thank you, Oliver, for the wolf and the goat, thank
you so much!--The wolf has sprung on the goat, Miss Wrath, and has
her by the throat.
ANABEL. The wolf?
OLIVER. It's a little marble group--Italian--in hard marble.
WINIFRED. The wolf--I love the wolf--he pounces so beautifully.
His backbone is so terribly fierce. I don't feel a bit sorry for
the goat, somehow.
OLIVER. I didn't. She is too much like the wrong sort of clergyman.
WINIFRED. Yes--such a stiff, long face. I wish he'd kill her.
MRS. BARLOW. There's a wish!
WINIFRED. Father and Gerald are coming. That's them, I suppose.
(Enter MR. BARLOW and GERALD.)
MR. BARLOW. Ah, good morning--good morning--quite a little gathering!
Ah---
OLIVER. The steps tire you, Mr. Barlow.
MR. BARLOW. A little--a little--thank you.--Well, Miss Wrath, are
you quite comfortable here?
ANABEL. Very comfortable, thanks.
GERALD. It was clever of you, father, to turn this place into a
studio.
MR. BARLOW. Yes, Gerald. You make the worldly schemes, and I the
homely. Yes, it's a delightful place. I shall come here often if
the two young ladies will allow me.--By the way, Miss Wrath, I don't
know if you have been introduced to my son Gerald. I beg your
pardon. Miss Wrath, Gerald--my son, Miss Wrath. (They bow.) Well,
we are quite a gathering, quite a pleasant little gathering. We
never expected anything so delightful a month ago, did we, Winifred,
darling?
WINIFRED. No, daddy, it's much nicer than expectations.
MR. BARLOW. So it is, dear--to have such exceptional companionship
and such a pleasant retreat. We are very happy to have Miss Wrath
with us--very happy.
GERALD. A studio's awfully nice, you know; it is such a retreat. A
newspaper has no effect in it--falls quite flat, no matter what the
headlines are.
MR. BARLOW. Quite true, Gerald, dear. It is a sanctum the world
cannot invade--unlike all other sanctuaries, I am afraid.
GERALD. By the way, Oliver--to go back to profanities--the colliers
really are coming out in support of the poor, ill-used clerks.
MR. BARLOW. No, no, Gerald--no, no! Don't be such an alarmist. Let
us leave these subjects before the ladies. No, no: the clerks will
have their increase quite peacefully.
GERALD. Yes, dear father--but they can't have it peacefully now.
We've been threatened already by the colliers--we've already received
an ultimatum.
MR. BARLOW. Nonsense, my boy--nonsense! Don't let us split words.
You won't go against the clerks in such a small matter. Always avoid
trouble over small matters. Don't make bad feeling--don't make bad
blood.
MRS. BARLOW. The blood is already rotten in the neighbourhood. What
it needs is letting out. We need a few veins opening, or we shall
have mortification setting in. The blood is black.
MR. BARLOW. We won't accept your figure of speech literally, dear.
No, Gerald, don't go to war over trifles.
GERALD. It's just over trifles that one must make war, father. One
can yield gracefully over big matters. But to be bullied over trifles
is a sign of criminal weakness.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, not so, not so, my boy. When you are as old as I am,
you will know the comparative insignificance of these trifles.
GERALD. The older _I_ get, father, the more such trifles stick in my
throat.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, it is an increasingly irritable disposition in you,
my child. Nothing costs so bitterly, in the end, as a stubborn pride.
MRS. BARLOW. Except a stubborn humility--and that will cost you more.
Avoid humility, beware of stubborn humility: it degrades. Hark,
Gerald--fight! When the occasion comes, fight! If it's one against
five thousand, fight! Don't give them your heart on a dish! Never!
If they want to eat your heart out, make them fight for it, and then
give it them poisoned at last, poisoned with your own blood.--What do
you say, young woman?
ANABEL. Is it for me to speak, Mrs. Barlow?
MRS. BARLOW. Weren't you asked?
ANABEL. Certainly I would NEVER give the world my heart on a dish.
But can't there ever be peace--real peace?
MRS. BARLOW. No--not while there is devilish enmity.
MR. BARLOW. You are wrong, dear, you are wrong. The peace can come,
the peace that passeth all understanding.
MRS. BARLOW. That there is already between me and Almighty God. I am
at peace with the God that made me, and made me proud. With men who
humiliate me I am at war. Between me and the shameful humble there
is war to the end, though they are millions and I am one. I hate the
people. Between my race and them and my children--for ever war, for
ever and ever.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, Henrietta--you have said all this before.
MRS. BARLOW. And say it again. Fight, Gerald. You have my blood in
you, thank God. Fight for it, Gerald. Spend it as if it were costly,
Gerald, drop by drop. Let no dogs lap it.--Look at your father. He
set his heart on a plate at the door, for the poorest mongrel to eat
up. See him now, wasted and crossed out like a mistake--and swear,
Gerald, swear to be true to my blood in you. Never lie down before
the mob, Gerald. Fight it and stab it, and die fighting. It's a
lost hope--but fight!
GERALD. Don't say these things here, mother.
MRS. BARLOW. Yes, I will--I will. I'll say them before you, and the
child Winifred--she knows. And before Oliver and the young woman--
they know, too.
MR. BARLOW. You see, dear, you can never understand that, although I
am weak and wasted, although I may be crossed out from the world like
a mistake, I still have peace in my soul, dear, the peach that passeth
all understanding.
MRS. BARLOW. And what right have you to it? All very well for you
to take peace with you into the other world. What do you leave for
your sons to inherit?
MR. BARLOW. The peace of God, Henrietta, if there is no peace among
men.
MRS. BARLOW. Then why did you have children? Why weren't you
celibate?
They have to live among men. If they have no place among
men, why have you put them there? If the peace of God is no more
than the peace of death, why are your sons born of you? How can you
have peace with God, if you leave no peace for your sons--no peace,
no pride, no place on earth?
GERALD. Nay, mother, nay. You shall never blame father on my behalf.
MRS. BARLOW. Don't trouble--he is blameless--I, a hulking, half-
demented woman, I am GLAD when you blame me. But don't blame me when
I tell you to fight. Don't do that, or you will regret it when you
must die. Ah, your father was stiff and proud enough before men of
better rank than himself. He was overbearing enough with his equals
and his betters. But he humbled himself before the poor, he made me
ashamed. He must hear it--he must hear it! Better he should hear it
than die coddling himself with peace. His humility, and my pride,
they have made a nice ruin of each other. Yet he is the man I wanted
to marry--he is the man I would marry again. But never, never again
would I give way before his goodness. Gerald, if you must be true to
your father, be true to me as well. Don't set me down at nothing
because I haven't a humble case.
GERALD. No, mother--no, dear mother. You see, dear mother, I have
rather a job between the two halves of myself. When you come to have
the wild horses in your own soul, mother, it makes it difficult.
MRS. BARLOW. Never mind, you'll have help.
GERALD. Thank you for the assurance, darling.--Father, you don't mind
what mother says, I hope. I believe there's some truth in it--don't
you?
MR. BARLOW. I have nothing to say.
WINIFRED. _I_ think there's some truth in it, daddy. You were always
worrying about those horrid colliers, and they didn't care a bit about
you. And they OUGHT to gave cared a million pounds.
MR. BARLOW. You don't understand, my child.
(Curtain.)
ACT II
SCENE: Evening of the same day. Drawing-room at Lilly Close. MR.
BARLOW, GERALD, WINIFRED, ANABEL OLIVER present. Butler pours
coffee.
MR. BARLOW. And you are quite a stranger in these parts, Miss Wrath?
ANABEL. Practically. But I was born at Derby.
MR. BARLOW. I was born in this house--but it was a different affair
then: my father was a farmer, you know. The coal has brought us what
moderate wealth we have. Of course, we were never poor or needy--
farmers, substantial farmers. And I think we were happier so--yes.--
Winnie, dear, hand Miss Wrath the sweets. I hope they're good. I
ordered them from London for you.--Oliver, my boy, have you everything
you like? That's right.--It gives me such pleasure to see a little
festive gathering in this room again. I wish Bertie and Elinor might
be here. What time is it, Gerald?
GERALD. A quarter to nine, father.
MR. BARLOW. Not late yet. I can sit with you another half-hour. I
am feeling better to-day. Winifred, sing something for us.
WINIFRED. Something jolly, father?
MR. BARLOW. Very jolly, darling.
WINIFRED. I'll sing "The Lincolnshire Poacher," shall I?
MR. BARLOW. Do, darling, and we'll all join in the chorus.--Will you
join in the chorus, Miss Wrath?
ANABEL. I will. It is a good song.
MR. BARLOW. Yes, isn't it!
WINIFRED. All dance for the chorus, as well as singing.
(They sing; some pirouette a little for the chorus.)