Part 6

BEATRICE. Because it was my cousin who urged Mr Rowan always to come back. I have that on my conscience.

BERTHA. It should be on Mr Hand’s conscience, should it not?

BEATRICE. [_Uncertainly._] On mine, too. Because—I spoke to my cousin about Mr Rowan when he was away and, to a certain extent, it was I...

BERTHA. [_Nods slowly._] I see. And that is on your conscience. Only that?

BEATRICE. I think so.

BERTHA. [_Almost cheerfully._] It looks as if it was you, Miss Justice, who brought my husband back to Ireland.

BEATRICE. I, Mrs Rowan?

BERTHA. Yes, you. By your letters to him and then by speaking to your cousin as you said just now. Do you not think that you are the person who brought him back?

BEATRICE. [_Blushing suddenly._] No. I could not think that.

BERTHA. [_Watches her for a moment; then turning aside._] You know that my husband is writing very much since he came back.

BEATRICE. Is he?

BERTHA. Did you not know? [_She points towards the study._] He passes the greater part of the night in there writing. Night after night.

BEATRICE. In his study?

BERTHA. Study or bedroom. You may call it what you please. He sleeps there, too, on a sofa. He slept there last night. I can show you if you don’t believe me.

[_She rises to go towards the study. Beatrice half rises quickly and makes a gesture of refusal._]

BEATRICE. I believe you, of course, Mrs Rowan, when you tell me.

BERTHA. [_Sitting down again._] Yes. He is writing. And it must be about something which has come into his life lately—since we came back to Ireland. Some change. Do you know that any change has come into his life? [_She looks searchingly at her._] Do you know it or feel it?

BEATRICE. [_Answers her look steadily._] Mrs Rowan, that is not a question to ask me. If any change has come into his life since he came back you must know and feel it.

BERTHA. You could know it just as well. You are very intimate in this house.

BEATRICE. I am not the only person who is intimate here.

[_They both look at each other coldly in silence for some moments. Bertha lays aside the paper and sits down on a chair nearer to Beatrice._]

BERTHA. [_Placing her hand on Beatrice’s knee._] So you also hate me, Miss Justice?

BEATRICE. [_With an effort._] Hate you? I?

BERTHA. [_Insistently but softly._] Yes. You know what it means to hate a person?

BEATRICE. Why should I hate you? I have never hated anyone.

BERTHA. Have you ever loved anyone? [_She puts her hand on Beatrice’s wrist._] Tell me. You have?

BEATRICE. [_Also softly._] Yes. In the past.

BERTHA. Not now?

BEATRICE. No.

BERTHA. Can you say that to me—truly? Look at me.

BEATRICE. [_Looks at her._] Yes, I can.

[_A short pause. Bertha withdraws her hand, and turns away her head in some embarrassment._]

BERTHA. You said just now that another person is intimate in this house. You meant your cousin... Was it he?

BEATRICE. Yes.

BERTHA. Have you not forgotten him?

BEATRICE. [_Quietly._] I have tried to.

BERTHA. [_Clasping her hands._] You hate me. You think I am happy. If you only knew how wrong you are!

BEATRICE. [_Shakes her head._] I do not.

BERTHA. Happy! When I do not understand anything that he writes, when I cannot help him in any way, when I don’t even understand half of what he says to me sometimes! You could and you can. [_Excitedly._] But I am afraid for him, afraid for both of them. [_She stands up suddenly and goes towards the davenport._] He must not go away like that. [_She takes a writing pad from the drawer and writes a few lines in great haste._] No, it is impossible! Is he mad to do such a thing? [_Turning to Beatrice._] Is he still at home?

BEATRICE. [_Watching her in wonder._] Yes. Have you written to him to ask him to come here?

BERTHA. [_Rises._] I have. I will send Brigid across with it. Brigid!

[_She goes out by the door on the left rapidly._]

BEATRICE. [_Gazing after her, instinctively:_] It is true, then!

[_She glances toward the door of Richard’s study and catches her head in her hands. Then, recovering herself, she takes the paper from the little table, opens it, takes a spectacle case from her handbag and, putting on a pair of spectacles, bends down, reading it. Richard Rowan enters from the garden. He is dressed as before but wears a soft hat and carries a thin cane._]

RICHARD. [_Stands in the doorway, observing her for some moments._] There are demons [_he points out towards the strand_] out there. I heard them jabbering since dawn.

BEATRICE. [_Starts to her feet._] Mr Rowan!

RICHARD. I assure you. The isle is full of voices. Yours also, _Otherwise I could not see you,_ it said. And her voice. But, I assure you, they are all demons. I made the sign of the cross upside down and that silenced them.

BEATRICE. [_Stammering._] I came here, Mr Rowan, so early because... to show you this... Robert wrote it... about you... last night.

RICHARD. [_Takes off his hat._] My dear Miss Justice, you told me yesterday, I think, why you came here and I never forget anything. [_Advancing towards her, holding out his hand._] Good morning.

BEATRICE. [_Suddenly takes off her spectacles and places the paper in his hands._] I came for this. It is an article about you. Robert wrote it last night. Will you read it?

RICHARD. [_Bows._] Read it now? Certainly.

BEATRICE. [_Looks at him in despair._] O, Mr Rowan, it makes me suffer to look at you.

RICHARD. [_Opens and reads the paper._] _Death of the Very Reverend Canon Mulhall_. Is that it?

[_Bertha appears at the door on the left and stands to listen._]

RICHARD. [_Turns over a page._] Yes, here we are! _A Distinguished Irishman._ [_He begins to read in a rather loud hard voice._] Not the least vital of the problems which confront our country is the problem of her attitude towards those of her children who, having left her in her hour of need, have been called back to her now on the eve of her longawaited victory, to her whom in loneliness and exile they have at last learned to love. In exile, we have said, but here we must distinguish. There is an economic and there is a spiritual exile. There are those who left her to seek the bread by which men live and there are others, nay, her most favoured children, who left her to seek in other lands that food of the spirit by which a nation of human beings is sustained in life. Those who recall the intellectual life of Dublin of a decade since will have many memories of Mr Rowan. Something of that fierce indignation which lacerated the heart...

[_He raises his eyes from the paper and sees Bertha standing in the doorway. Then he lays aside the paper and looks at her. A long silence._]

BEATRICE. [_With an effort._] You see, Mr Rowan, your day has dawned at last. Even here. And you see that you have a warm friend in Robert, a friend who understands you.

RICHARD. Did you notice the little phrase at the beginning: _those who left her in her hour of need?_

[_He looks searchingly at Bertha, turns and walks into his study, closing the door behind him._]

BERTHA. [_Speaking half to herself._] I gave up everything for him, religion, family, my own peace.

[_She sits down heavily in an armchair. Beatrice comes towards her._]

BEATRICE. [_Weakly._] But do you not feel also that Mr Rowan’s ideas...

BERTHA. [_Bitterly._] Ideas and ideas! But the people in this world have other ideas or pretend to. They have to put up with him in spite of his ideas because he is able to do something. Me, no. I am nothing.

BEATRICE. You stand by his side.

BERTHA. [_With increasing bitterness._] Ah, nonsense, Miss Justice! I am only a thing he got entangled with and my son is—the nice name they give those children. Do you think I am a stone? Do you think I don’t see it in their eyes and in their manner when they have to meet me?

BEATRICE. Do not let them humble you, Mrs Rowan.

BERTHA. [_Haughtily._] Humble me! I am very proud of myself, if you want to know. What have they ever done for him? I made him a man. What are they all in his life? No more than the dirt under his boots! [_She stands up and walks excitedly to and fro._] He can despise me, too, like the rest of them—now. And you can despise me. But you will never humble me, any of you.

BEATRICE. Why do you accuse me?

BERTHA. [_Going to her impulsively._] I am in such suffering. Excuse me if I was rude. I want us to be friends. [_She holds out her hands._] Will you?

BEATRICE. [_Taking her hands._] Gladly.

BERTHA. [_Looking at her._] What lovely long eyelashes you have! And your eyes have such a sad expression!

BEATRICE. [_Smiling._] I see very little with them. They are very weak.

BERTHA. [_Warmly._] But beautiful.

[_She embraces her quietly and kisses her. Then withdraws from her a little shyly. Brigid comes in from the left._]

BRIGID. I gave it to himself, ma’am.

BERTHA. Did he send a message?

BRIGID. He was just going out, ma’am. He told me to say he’d be here after me.

BERTHA. Thanks.

BRIGID. [_Going._] Would you like the tea and the toast now, ma’am?

BERTHA. Not now, Brigid. After perhaps. When Mr Hand comes show him in at once.

BRIGID. Yes, ma’am.

[_She goes out on the left._]

BEATRICE. I will go now, Mrs Rowan, before he comes.

BERTHA. [_Somewhat timidly._] Then we are friends?

BEATRICE. [_In the same tone._] We will try to be. [_Turning._] Do you allow me to go out through the garden? I don’t want to meet my cousin now.

BERTHA. Of course. [_She takes her hand._] It is so strange that we spoke like this now. But I always wanted to. Did you?

BEATRICE. I think I did, too.

BERTHA. [_Smiling._] Even in Rome. When I went out for a walk with Archie I used to think about you, what you were like, because I knew about you from Dick. I used to look at different persons, coming out of churches or going by in carriages, and think that perhaps they were like you. Because Dick told me you were dark.

BEATRICE. [_Again nervously._] Really?

BERTHA. [_Pressing her hand._] Goodbye then—for the present.

BEATRICE. [_Disengaging her hand._] Good morning.

BERTHA. I will see you to the gate.

[_She accompanies her out through the double doors. They go down through the garden. Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He halts near the doors, looking down the garden. Then he turns away, comes to the little table, takes up the paper and reads. Bertha, after some moments, appears in the doorway and stands watching him till he has finished. He lays down the paper again and turns to go back to his study._]

BERTHA. Dick!

RICHARD. [_Stopping._] Well?

BERTHA. You have not spoken to me.

RICHARD. I have nothing to say. Have you?

BERTHA. Do you not wish to know—about what happened last night?

RICHARD. That I will never know.

BERTHA. I will tell you if you ask me.

RICHARD. You will tell me. But I will never know. Never in this world.

BERTHA. [_Moving towards him._] I will tell you the truth, Dick, as I always told you. I never lied to you.

RICHARD. [_Clenching his hands in the air, passionately._] Yes, yes. The truth! But I will never know, I tell you.

BERTHA. Why, then, did you leave me last night?

RICHARD. [_Bitterly._] In your hour of need.

BERTHA. [_Threateningly._] You urged me to it. Not because you love me. If you loved me or if you knew what love was you would not have left me. For your own sake you urged me to it.

RICHARD. I did not make myself. I am what I am.

BERTHA. To have it always to throw against me. To make me humble before you, as you always did. To be free yourself. [_Pointing towards the garden._] With her! And that is your love! Every word you say is false.

RICHARD. [_Controlling himself._] It is useless to ask you to listen to me.

BERTHA. Listen to you! She is the person for listening. Why would you waste your time with me? Talk to her.

RICHARD. [_Nods his head._] I see. You have driven her away from me now, as you drove everyone else from my side—every friend I ever had, every human being that ever tried to approach me. You hate her.

BERTHA. [_Warmly._] No such thing! I think you have made her unhappy as you have made me and as you made your dead mother unhappy and killed her. Womankiller! That is your name.

RICHARD. [_Turns to go._] _Arrivederci!_

BERTHA. [_Excitedly._] She is a fine and high character. I like her. She is everything that I am not—in birth and education. You tried to ruin her but you could not. Because she is well able for you—what I am not. And you know it.

RICHARD. [_Almost shouting._] What the devil are you talking about her for?

BERTHA. [_Clasping her hands._] O, how I wish I had never met you! How I curse that day!

RICHARD. [_Bitterly._] I am in the way, is it? You would like to be free now. You have only to say the word.

BERTHA. [_Proudly._] Whenever you like I am ready.

RICHARD. So that you could meet your lover—freely?

BERTHA. Yes.

RICHARD. Night after night?

BERTHA. [_Gazing before her and speaking with intense passion._] To meet my lover! [_Holding out her arms before her._] My lover! Yes! My lover!

[_She bursts suddenly into tears and sinks down on a chair, covering her face with her hands. Richard approaches her slowly and touches her on the shoulder._]

RICHARD. Bertha! [_She does not answer._] Bertha, you are free.

BERTHA. [_Pushes his hand aside and starts to her feet._] Don’t touch me! You are a stranger to me. You do not understand anything in me—not one thing in my heart or soul. A stranger! I am living with a stranger!

[_A knock is heard at the hall door. Bertha dries her eyes quickly with her handkerchief and settles the front of her gown. Richard listens for a moment, looks at her keenly and, turning away, walks into his study. Robert Hand enters from the left. He is dressed in dark brown and carries in his hand a brown Alpine hat._]

ROBERT. [_Closing the door quietly behind him._] You sent for me.

BERTHA. [_Rises._] Yes. Are you mad to think of going away like that—without even coming here—without saying anything?

ROBERT. [_Advancing towards the table on which the paper lies, glances at it._] What I have to say I said here.

BERTHA. When did you write it? Last night—after I went away?

ROBERT. [_Gracefully._] To be quite accurate, I wrote part of it—in my mind—before you went away. The rest—the worst part—I wrote after. Much later.

BERTHA. And you could write last night!

ROBERT. [_Shrugs his shoulders._] I am a welltrained animal. [_He comes closer to her._] I passed a long wandering night after... in my office, at the vicechancellor’s house, in a nightclub, in the streets, in my room. Your image was always before my eyes, your hand in my hand. Bertha, I will never forget last night. [_He lays his hat on the table and takes her hand._] Why do you not look at me? May I not touch you?

BERTHA. [_Points to the study._] Dick is in there.

ROBERT. [_Drops her hand._] In that case children be good.

BERTHA. Where are you going?

ROBERT. To foreign parts. That is, to my cousin Jack Justice, _alias_ Doggy Justice, in Surrey. He has a nice country place there and the air is mild.

BERTHA. Why are you going?

ROBERT. [_Looks at her in silence._] Can you not guess one reason?

BERTHA. On account of me?

ROBERT. Yes. It is not pleasant for me to remain here just now.

BERTHA. [_Sits down helplessly._] But this is cruel of you, Robert. Cruel to me and to him also.

ROBERT. Has he asked... what happened?

BERTHA. [_Joining her hands in despair._] No. He refuses to ask me anything. He says he will never know.

ROBERT. [_Nods gravely._] Richard is right there. He is always right.

BERTHA. But, Robert, you must speak to him.

ROBERT. What am I to say to him?

BERTHA. The truth! Everything!

ROBERT. [_Reflects._] No, Bertha. I am a man speaking to a man. I cannot tell him everything.

BERTHA. He will believe that you are going away because you are afraid to face him after last night.

ROBERT. [_After a pause._] Well, I am not a coward any more than he. I will see him.

BERTHA. [_Rises._] I will call him.

ROBERT. [_Catching her hands._] Bertha! What happened last night? What is the truth that I am to tell? [_He gazes earnestly into her eyes._] Were you mine in that sacred night of love? Or have I dreamed it?

BERTHA. [_Smiles faintly._] Remember your dream of me. You dreamed that I was yours last night.

ROBERT. And that is the truth—a dream? That is what I am to tell?

BERTHA. Yes.

ROBERT. [_Kisses both her hands._] Bertha! [_In a softer voice._] In all my life only that dream is real. I forget the rest. [_He kisses her hands again._] And now I can tell him the truth. Call him.

[_Bertha goes to the door of Richard’s study and knocks. There is no answer. She knocks again._]

BERTHA. Dick! [_There is no answer._] Mr Hand is here. He wants to speak to you, to say goodbye. He is going away. [_There is no answer. She beats her hand loudly on the panel of the door and calls in an alarmed voice._] Dick! Answer me!

[_Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He comes at once to Robert but does not hold out his hand._]

RICHARD. [_Calmly._] I thank you for your kind article about me. Is it true that you have come to say goodbye?

ROBERT. There is nothing to thank me for, Richard. Now and always I am your friend. Now more than ever before. Do you believe me, Richard?

[_Richard sits down on a chair and buries his face in his hands. Bertha and Robert gaze at each other in silence. Then she turns away and goes out quietly on the right. Robert goes towards Richard and stands near him, resting his hands on the back of a chair, looking down at him. There is a long silence. A Fishwoman is heard crying out as she passes along the road outside._]

THE FISHWOMAN. Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Dublin bay herrings!

ROBERT. [_Quietly._] I will tell you the truth, Richard. Are you listening?

RICHARD. [_Raises his face and leans back to listen._] Yes.

[_Robert sits on the chair beside him. The Fishwoman is heard calling out farther away._]

THE FISHWOMAN. Fresh herrings! Dublin bay herrings!

ROBERT. I failed, Richard. That is the truth. Do you believe me?

RICHARD. I am listening.

ROBERT. I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first.

RICHARD. When we met her first, you mean.

ROBERT. Yes. [_He looks down for some moments._] Shall I go on?

RICHARD. Yes.

ROBERT. She went away. I was left alone—for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old—that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then...

RICHARD. Then?

ROBERT. Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on?

RICHARD. Yes.

ROBERT. I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on?

RICHARD. Yes.

ROBERT. She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted?

RICHARD. Why did you not go by the boat?

ROBERT. I slept it out.

RICHARD. You intended to go without saying goodbye—without coming here?

ROBERT. Yes.

RICHARD. Why?

ROBERT. My story is not very nice, is it?

RICHARD. But you have come.

ROBERT. Bertha sent me a message to come.

RICHARD. But for that...?

ROBERT. But for that I should not have come.

RICHARD. Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it—in my own way?

ROBERT. Yes, it did.

RICHARD. What, then, do you wish me to believe?

ROBERT. I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you—when we—met her first.

RICHARD. Do you want to know what I did?

ROBERT. No.

RICHARD. I came home at once.

ROBERT. Did you hear Bertha return?

RICHARD. No. I wrote all the night. And thought. [_Pointing to the study._] In there. Before dawn I went out and walked the strand from end to end.

ROBERT. [_Shaking his head._] Suffering. Torturing yourself.

RICHARD. Hearing voices about me. The voices of those who say they love me.

ROBERT. [_Points to the door on the right._] One. And mine?

RICHARD. Another still.

ROBERT. [_Smiles and touches his forehead with his right forefinger._] True. My interesting but somewhat melancholy cousin. And what did they tell you?

RICHARD. They told me to despair.

ROBERT. A queer way of showing their love, I must say! And will you despair?

RICHARD. [_Rising._] No.

[_A noise is heard at the window. Archie’s face is seen flattened against one of the panes. He is heard calling._]

ARCHIE. Open the window! Open the window!

ROBERT. [_Looks at Richard._] Did you hear his voice, too, Richard, with the others—out there on the strand? Your son’s voice. [_Smiling._] Listen! How full it is of despair!

ARCHIE. Open the window, please, will you?

ROBERT. Perhaps, there, Richard, is the freedom we seek—you in one way, I in another. In him and not in us. Perhaps...

RICHARD. Perhaps...?

ROBERT. I said _perhaps_. I would say almost surely if...

RICHARD. If what?

ROBERT. [_With a faint smile._] If he were mine.

[_He goes to the window and opens it. Archie scrambles in._]

ROBERT. Like yesterday—eh?

ARCHIE. Good morning, Mr Hand. [_He runs to Richard and kisses him:_] _Buon giorno, babbo_.

RICHARD. _Buon giorno_, Archie.

ROBERT. And where were you, my young gentleman?

ARCHIE. Out with the milkman. I drove the horse. We went to Booterstown. [_He takes off his cap and throws it on a chair._] I am very hungry.

ROBERT. [_Takes his hat from the table._] Richard, goodbye. [_Offering his hand._] To our next meeting!

RICHARD. [_Rises, touches his hand._] Goodbye.

[_Bertha appears at the door on the right._]

ROBERT. [_Catches sight of her: to Archie._] Get your cap. Come on with me. I’ll buy you a cake and I’ll tell you a story.

ARCHIE. [_To Bertha._] May I, mamma?

BERTHA. Yes.

ARCHIE. [_Takes his cap._] I am ready.

ROBERT. [_To Richard and Bertha._] Goodbye to pappa and mamma. But not a big goodbye.

ARCHIE. Will you tell me a fairy story, Mr Hand?

ROBERT. A fairy story? Why not? I am your fairy godfather.

[_They go out together through the double doors and down the garden. When they have gone Bertha goes to Richard and puts her arm round his waist._]

BERTHA. Dick, dear, do you believe now that I have been true to you? Last night and always?

RICHARD. [_Sadly._] Do not ask me, Bertha.

BERTHA. [_Pressing him more closely._] I have been, dear. Surely you believe me. I gave you myself—all. I gave up all for you. You took me—and you left me.

RICHARD. When did I leave you?

BERTHA. You left me: and I waited for you to come back to me. Dick, dear, come here to me. Sit down. How tired you must be!

[_She draws him towards the lounge. He sits down, almost reclining, resting on his arm. She sits on the mat before the lounge, holding his hand._]

BERTHA. Yes, dear. I waited for you. Heavens, what I suffered then—when we lived in Rome! Do you remember the terrace of our house?

RICHARD. Yes.

BERTHA. I used to sit there, waiting, with the poor child with his toys, waiting till he got sleepy. I could see all the roofs of the city and the river, the _Tevere_. What is its name?

RICHARD. The Tiber.