Chapter 3
ALINE. If you had the least grain of chivalrous feeling, you would realise that the man who could speak to a woman as you have spoken to me--
[_She pauses._
CROCKSTEAD. Yes?
ALINE. I leave you to finish the sentence.
CROCKSTEAD. Thank you. I will finish it my own way. I will say that when a woman deliberately tries to wring an offer of marriage from a man whom she does not love, she deserves to be spoken to as I have spoken to you, Lady Aline.
ALINE. [_Scornfully._] Love! What has love to do with marriage?
CROCKSTEAD. That remark rings hollow. You have been good enough to tell me of your cousin, whom you did love--
ALINE. Well?
CROCKSTEAD. And with whom you would have eloped, had your mother not prevented you.
ALINE. I most certainly should.
CROCKSTEAD. So you see that at one period of your life you thought differently.--You were very fond of him?
ALINE. I have told you.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Meditatively._] If I had been he, mother or no mother, money or no money, I would have carried you off. I fancy it must be pleasant to be loved by you, Lady Aline.
ALINE. [_Dropping a mock curtsey, as she sits on the sofa._] You do me too much honour.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Still thoughtful, moving about the room._] Next to being king, it is good to be maker of kings. Where is this cousin now?
ALINE. In America. But might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject?
CROCKSTEAD. Do you remember your "Arabian Nights," Lady Aline?
ALINE. Vaguely.
CROCKSTEAD. You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph, Haroun Al-Raschid?
ALINE. Oh, no--but why?
CROCKSTEAD. We millionaires are the Caliphs to-day; and we command more faithful than ever bowed to them. And, like that old scoundrel Haroun, we may at times permit ourselves a respectable impulse. What is your cousin's address?
ALINE. Again I ask--why?
CROCKSTEAD. I will put him in a position to marry you.
ALINE. [_In extreme surprise._] What! [_She rises._
CROCKSTEAD. Oh, don't be alarmed, I'll manage it pleasantly. I'll give him tips, shares, speculate for him, make him a director of one or two of my companies. He shall have an income of four thousand a year. You can live on that.
ALINE. You are not serious?
CROCKSTEAD. Oh yes; and though men may not like me, they always trust my word. You may.
ALINE. And why will you do this thing?
CROCKSTEAD. Call it caprice--call it a mere vulgar desire to let my magnificence dazzle you--call it the less vulgar desire to know that my money has made you happy with the man you love.
ALINE. That is generous.
CROCKSTEAD. I remember an old poem I learnt at school--which told how Frederick the Great coveted a mill that adjoined a favourite estate of his; but the miller refused to sell. Frederick could have turned him out, of course--there was not very much public opinion in those days--but he respected the miller's firmness, and left him in solid possession. And mark that, at that very same time, he annexed--in other words stole--the province of Silesia.
ALINE. Ah--
CROCKSTEAD. [_Moving to the fireplace._]
"Ce sont là jeux de Princes: Ils respectent un meunier, Ils volent une province."
[_The music stops._
ALINE. You speak French?
CROCKSTEAD. I am fond of it. It is the true and native language of insincerity.
ALINE. And yet you seem sincere.
CROCKSTEAD. I am permitting myself that luxury to-night. I am uncorking, let us say, the one bottle of '47 port left in my cellar.
ALINE. You are not quite fair to yourself, perhaps.
CROCKSTEAD. Do not let this action of mine cause you too suddenly to alter your opinion. The verdict you pronounced before was, on the whole, just.
ALINE. What verdict?
CROCKSTEAD. I was the most unpleasant person you ever had met.
ALINE. That was an exaggeration.
CROCKSTEAD. The most repulsive--
ALINE. [_Quickly._] I did not say that.
CROCKSTEAD. And who prided himself on his repulsiveness. Very true, in the main, and yet consider! My wealth dates back ten years; till then I had known hunger, and every kind of sorrow and despair. I had stretched out longing arms to the world, but not a heart opened to me. And suddenly, when the taste of men's cruelty was bitter in my mouth, capricious fortune snatched me from abject poverty and gave me delirious wealth. I was ploughing a barren field, and flung up a nugget. From that moment gold dogged my footsteps. I enriched the few friends I had--they turned howlingly from me because I did not give them more. I showered money on whoever sought it of me--they cursed me because it was mine to give. In my poverty there had been the bond of common sorrow between me and my fellows: in my wealth I stand alone, a modern Ishmael, with every man's hand against me.
ALINE. [_Gently._] Why do you tell me this?
CROCKSTEAD. Because I am no longer asking you to marry me. Because you are the first person in all these years who has been truthful and frank with me. And because, perhaps, in the happiness that will, I trust, be yours, I want you to think kindly of me. [_She puts out her hand, he takes it._] And now, shall we return to the ball-room? The music has stopped; they must be going to supper.
ALINE. What shall I say to the Marchioness, my mother, and the Duchess, my aunt?
CROCKSTEAD. You will acquaint those noble ladies with the fact of your having refused me.
[_They have both risen, and move up the room together._
ALINE. I shall be a nine days' wonder. And how do you propose to carry out your little scheme?
CROCKSTEAD. I will take Saturday's boat--you will give me a line to your cousin. I had better state the case plainly to him, perhaps?
ALINE. That demands consideration.
CROCKSTEAD. And I will tell you what you shall do for me in return. Find me a wife!
ALINE. I?
CROCKSTEAD. You. I beg it on my knees. I give you carte blanche. I undertake to propose, with my eyes shut, to the woman you shall select.
ALINE. And will you treat her to the--little preliminaries--with which you have favoured me?
CROCKSTEAD. No. I said those things to you because I liked you.
ALINE. And you don't intend to like the other one?
CROCKSTEAD. I will marry her, I can trust you to find me a loyal and intelligent woman.
ALINE. In Society?
CROCKSTEAD. For preference. She will be better versed in spending money than a governess, or country parson's daughter.
ALINE. But why this voracity for marriage?
CROCKSTEAD. Lady Aline, I am hunted, pestered, worried, persecuted. I have settled two breach of promise actions already, though Heaven knows I did no more than remark it was a fine day, or enquire after the lady's health. If you do not help me, some energetic woman will capture me--I feel it--and bully me for the rest of my days. I raise a despairing cry to you--Find me a wife!
ALINE. Do you desire the lady to have any--special qualifications?
CROCKSTEAD. No--the home-grown article will do. One thing, though--I should like her to be--merciful.
ALINE. I don't understand.
CROCKSTEAD. I have a vague desire to do something with my money: my wife might help me. I should like her to have pity.
ALINE. Pity?
CROCKSTEAD. In the midst of her wealth I should wish her to be sorry for those who are poor.
ALINE. Yes. And, as regards the rest--
CROCKSTEAD. The rest I leave to you, with absolute confidence. You will help me?
ALINE. I will try. My choice is to be final?
CROCKSTEAD. Absolutely.
ALINE. I have an intimate friend--I wonder whether she would do?
CROCKSTEAD. Tell me about her.
ALINE. She and I made our debut the same season. Like myself she has hitherto been her mother's despair.
CROCKSTEAD. Because she has not yet--
ALINE. Married--yes. Oh, if men knew how hard the lot is of the portionless girl, who has to sit, and smile, and wait, with a very desolate heart--they would think less unkindly of her, perhaps--[_She smiles._] But I am digressing, too.
CROCKSTEAD. Tell me more of your friend.
ALINE. She is outwardly hard, and a trifle bitter, but I fancy sunshine would thaw her. There has not been much happiness in her life.
CROCKSTEAD. Would she marry a man she did not love?
ALINE. If she did you would not respect her?
CROCKSTEAD. I don't say that. She will be your choice; and therefore deserving of confidence. Is she handsome?
ALINE. Well--no.
CROCKSTEAD. [_With a quick glance at her._] That's a pity. But we can't have everything.
ALINE. No. There is one episode in her life that I feel she would like you to know--
CROCKSTEAD. If you are not betraying a confidence--
ALINE. [_Looking down._] No. She loved a man, years ago, very dearly. They were too poor to marry, but they vowed to wait. Within six months she learned that he was engaged.
CROCKSTEAD. Ah!
ALINE. To a fat and wealthy widow--
CROCKSTEAD. The old story.
ALINE. Who was touring through India, and had been made love to by every unmarried officer in the regiment. She chose him.
CROCKSTEAD. India? [_He moves towards her._]
ALINE. Yes.
CROCKSTEAD. I have an idea that I shall like your friend. [_He takes her hand in his._]
ALINE. I shall be careful to tell her all that you said to me--at the beginning--
CROCKSTEAD. It is quite possible that my remarks may not apply after all.
ALINE. But I believe myself from what I know of you both that--if she marries you--it will not be--altogether--for your money.
CROCKSTEAD. Listen--they're playing "God Save the King." Will you be my wife, Aline?
ALINE. Yes--Harry.
[_He takes her in his arms and kisses her._
CURTAIN
THE MAN ON THE KERB
A DUOLOGUE
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
JOSEPH MATTHEWS MARY (HIS WIFE)
TIME--_The present_
SCENE--_Their home in the West End_
_Produced at the Aldwych Theatre on March 24, 1908_
THE MAN ON THE KERB
SCENE: _An underground room, bare of any furniture except two or three broken chairs, a tattered mattress on the stone floor and an old trunk. On a packing-chest are a few pots and pans and a kettle. A few sacks are spread over the floor, close to the empty grate; the walls are discoloured, with plentiful signs of damp oozing through. Close to the door, at back, is a window, looking on to the area; two of the panes are broken and stuffed with paper._
_On the mattress a child is sleeping, covered with a tattered old mantle;_ MARY _is bending over her, crooning a song. The woman is still quite young, and must have been very pretty; but her cheeks are hollow and there are great circles round her eyes; her face is very pale and bloodless. Her dress is painfully worn and shabby, but displays pathetic attempts at neatness. The only light in the room comes from the street lamp on the pavement above._
JOE _comes down the area steps, and enters. His clothes are of the familiar colourless, shapeless kind one sees at street corners; he would be a pleasant-looking young fellow enough were it not that his face is abnormally lined, and pinched, and weather-beaten. He shambles in, with the intense weariness of a man who has for hours been forcing benumbed limbs to move; he shakes himself, on the threshold, dog-fashion, to get rid of the rain._ MARY _first makes sure that the child is asleep, then rises eagerly and goes to him. Her face falls as she notes his air of dejection._
MARY. [_Wistfully._] Nothing, Joe?
JOE. Nothing. Not a farthing. Nothing.
[MARY _turns away and checks a moan._
JOE. Nothing at all. Same as yesterday--worse than yesterday--I _did_ bring home a few coppers--And you?
MARY. A lady gave Minnie some food--
JOE. [_Heartily._] Bless her for that!
MARY. Took her into the pastrycook's, Joe--
JOE. And the kiddie had a tuck-out? Thank God! And you?
MARY. Minnie managed to hide a great big bun for me.
JOE. The lady didn't give you anything?
MARY. Only a lecture, Joe, for bringing the child out on so bitter a day.
JOE. [_With a sour laugh, as he sits on a chair._] Ho, ho! Always so ready with their lectures, aren't they? "Shouldn't beg, my man! Never give to beggars in the street!"--Look at me, I said to one of them. Feel my arm. Tap my chest. I tell you I'm starving, and they're starving at home.--"Never give to beggars in the street."
MARY. [_Laying a hand on his arm._] Oh, Joe, you're wet!
JOE. It's been raining hard the last three hours--pouring. My stars, it's cold. Couldn't we raise a bit of fire, Mary?
MARY. With what, Joe?
JOE. [_After a look round, suddenly getting up, seizing a ricketty chair by the wall, breaking off the legs._] With this! Wonderful fine furniture they give you on the Hire System--so solid and substantial--as advertised. [_He breaks the flimsy thing up, as he speaks._] And to think we paid for this muck, in the days we were human beings--paid about three times its value! And to think of the poor devils, poor devils like us, who sweated their life-blood out to make it--and of the blood-sucking devils who sold it and got fat on it--and now back it goes to the devil it came from, and we can at least get warm for a minute. [_He crams the wood into the grate._] Got any paper, Mary?
MARY. [_Taking an old newspaper from the trunk._] Here, Joe.
JOE. That will help to build up a fire. [_He glances at it, then lays it carefully underneath the wood._ MARY _gets lamp from table._] The Daily Something or other--that tells the world what a happy people we are--how proud of belonging to an Empire on which the sun never sets. And I'd sell Gibraltar to-night for a sausage with mashed potatoes; and let Russia take India if some one would give me a clerkship at a pound a week.--There, in you go! A match, Mary?
MARY. [_Standing above_ JOE, _handing him one._] Ok Joe, be careful--we've only two left!
JOE. I'll be careful. Wait, though--I'll see whether there's a bit of tobacco still in my pipe. [_He fishes the pipe out of his pocket._] A policeman who warned me away from the kerb gave me some tobacco. "Mustn't beg," he said. "Got a pipe? Well, here's some tobacco." I believe he'd have given me money. But it was the first kind word I had heard all day, and it choked me.--There's just a bit left at the bottom. [_He bustles._] Now, first the fire. [_He puts the match to the paper--it kindles._] And then my pipe. [_The fire burns up; he throws himself in front of it._] Boo-o-oh, I'm sizzling.... I got so wet that I felt the water running into my lungs--my feet didn't seem to belong to me--and as for my head and nose! [_Yawns._] Well, smoke's good--by the powers, I'm getting warm--come closer to it, Mary. It's a little after midnight now--and I left home, this fine, luxurious British home, just as soon as it was light. And I've tramped the streets all day. Net result, a policeman gave me a pipeful of tobacco, I lunched off a bit of bread that I saw floating down the gutter--and I dined off the kitchen smell of the Café Royal. That's my day.
MARY. [_Stroking his hand._] Poor boy, poor boy!
JOE. I stood for an hour in Leicester Square when the theatres emptied, thinking I might earn a copper, calling a cab, or something. There they were, all streaming out, happy and clean and warm--broughams and motor-cars--supper at the Savoy and the Carlton--and a hundred or two of us others in the gutter, hungry--looking at them. They went off to their supper--it was pouring, and I got soaked--and there I stood, dodging the policemen, dodging the horses' heads and the motors--and it was always--get away, you loafer, get away--get away--get away--
MARY. We've done nothing to deserve it, Joe--
JOE. [_With sudden fury._] Deserve it! What have I ever done wrong! Wasn't _my_ fault the firm went bankrupt and I couldn't get another job. I've a first-rate character--I'm respectable--what's the use? I want to work--they won't let me!
MARY. That illness of mine ate up all our savings. O Joe, I wish I had died!
JOE. And left me alone? That's not kind of you, Mary. How about Mrs. Willis? Is she worrying about the rent?
MARY. Well, she'd like to have it, of course--they're so dreadfully poor themselves--but she says she won't turn us out. And I'm going to-morrow to her daughter's upstairs--she makes matchboxes, you know--and I don't see why I shouldn't try--I could earn nearly a shilling a day.
JOE. A shilling a day! Princely! [_His pipe goes out. He takes a last puff at it, squints into it to make sure all the tobacco is gone, then lays it down with a sigh._] I reckon _I'll_ try making 'em too. I went to the Vestry again, this morning, to see whether they'd take me as sweeper--but they've thirty names down, ahead of me. I've tried chopping wood, but I can't--I begin to cough the third stroke--there's something wrong with me inside, somewhere. I've tried every Institution on God's earth--and there are others before me, and there is no vacancy, and I mustn't beg, and I mustn't worry the gentlemen. A shilling a day--can one earn as much as that! Why, Mary, that will be fourteen shillings a week--an income! We'll do it!
MARY. It's not quite a shilling, Joe--you have to find your own paste and odds and ends. And of course it takes a few weeks to learn, before you begin to make any money.
JOE. [_Crestfallen._] Does it though? And what are we going to do, those few weeks? I thought there was a catch in it, somewhere. [_He gets up and stretches himself._] Well, here's a free-born Englishman, able to conduct correspondence in three languages, bookkeeping by double entry, twelve years' experience--and all he's allowed to do is to starve. [_He stretches himself again._]
But in spite of all temptations To belong to other nations--
[_With sudden passion._] God! I wish I were a Zulu!
MARY. [_Edging to him._] Joe--
JOE. [_Turning._] Well?
MARY. Joe, Joe, we've tried very hard, haven't we?
JOE. Tried! Is there a job in this world we'd refuse? Is there anything we'd turn up our nose at? Is there any chance we've neglected?
MARY. [_Stealing nervously to him and laying a hand on his arm._] Joe--
JOE. [_Raising his head and looking at her._] Yes--what is it? [_She stands timidly with downcast eyes._] Well? Out with it, Mary!
MARY. [_Suddenly._] It's this, Joe.
[_She goes feverishly to the mattress, and from underneath it she pulls out a big, fat purse which she hands him._
JOE. [_Staring._] A purse!
MARY. [_Nodding._] Yes.
JOE. You--
MARY. Found it.
JOE. [_Looking at her._] Found?
MARY. [_Awkwardly._] In a way I did--yes.
JOE. How?
MARY. It came on to rain, Joe--and I went into a Tube Station--and was standing by a bookstall, showing Minnie the illustrated papers--and an old lady bought one--and she took out her purse--this purse--and paid for it--and laid the purse on the board while she fumbled to pick up her skirts--and then some one spoke to her--a friend, I suppose--and--there were lots of people standing about--I don't know how it was--I was out in the street, with Minnie--
JOE. You had the purse?
MARY. Yes--
JOE. No one followed you?
MARY. No one. I couldn't run, as I had to carry Minnie.
JOE. What made you do it?
MARY. I don't know--something in me did it--She put the purse down just by the side of my hand--my fingers clutched it before I knew--and I was out in the street.
JOE. How much is there in it?
MARY. I haven't looked, Joe.
JOE. [_Wondering._] You haven't looked?
MARY. No; I didn't dare.
JOE. [_Sorrowfully._] I didn't think we'd come to this, Mary.
MARY. [_Desperately._] We've got to do something. Before we can earn any money at making matchboxes we'll have to spend some weeks learning. And you've not had a decent meal for a month--nor have I. If there's money inside this purse you can get some clothes--and for me too--I need them! It's not as though the old lady would miss it--she's rich enough--her cloak was real sable--and no one can find us out--they can't tell one piece of money from the other. It's heavy, Joe--I think there's a lot inside.
JOE. [_Weighing it mechanically._] Yes--it's heavy--
MARY. [_Eagerly._] Open it, Joe.
JOE. [_Turning to her again._] Why didn't you?
MARY. I just thought I'd wait--I'd an idea something might have happened; that some one might have stopped you in the street, some one with a heart--and that he'd have come in with you to-night--and seen us--seen Minnie--and said--"Well, here's money--I'll put you on your legs again"--And then we'd have given the purse back, Joe.
JOE. [_As he still mechanically balances it in his hand._] Yes.
MARY. Can't go on like this, can we? You'll cough all night again, as you did yesterday--and the stuff they gave you at the Dispensary's no good. If you had clothes, you might get some sort of a job perhaps--you know you had to give up trying because you were so shabby.
JOE. They laugh at me.
MARY. [_With a glance at herself._] And I'm really ashamed to walk through the streets--
JOE. I know--though I'm getting used to it. Besides, there's the kiddie. Let's have a look at her.
MARY. Be careful you don't wake her, Joe!
JOE. There's a fire.
MARY. She'll be hungry.
JOE. You said that she had some food?
MARY. That was at three o'clock. And little things aren't like us--they want their regular meals. Night after night she has been hungry, and I've had nothing to give her. That's why I took the purse.
JOE. [_Still holding it mechanically and staring at it._] Yes. And, after all, why not?
MARY. We can get the poor little thing some warm clothes, some good food--
JOE. [_Under his breath._] A thief's daughter.
[_Covers his face with his hands._
MARY. Joe!
JOE. Not nice, is it? Can't be helped, of course. And who cares? For three months this game has gone on--we getting shabbier, wretcheder, hungrier--no one bothers--all _they_ say is "keep off the pavement." Let's see what's in the purse.
MARY. [_Eagerly._] Yes, yes!
JOE. [_Lifting his head as he is on the point of opening the purse._] That's the policeman passing.
MARY. [_Impatiently._] Never mind that--
JOE. [_Turning to the purse again._] First time in my life I've been afraid when I heard the policeman.
[_He has his finger on the catch of the purse when he pauses for a moment--then acting on a sudden impulse, makes a dart for the door, opens it, and is out, and up the area steps._
MARY. [_With a despairing cry._] Joe!
[_She flings herself on the mattress, and sobs silently, so as not to awaken, the child._ JOE _returns, hanging his head, dragging one foot before the other._
MARY. [_Still sobbing, but trying to control herself._] Why did you do that?
JOE. [_Humbly._] I don't know--
MARY. You gave it to the policeman?
JOE. Yes.
MARY. What did you tell him?
JOE. That you had found it.
MARY. Where?
JOE. In a Tube Station. Picked it up because we were starving. That we hadn't opened it. And that we lived here, in this cellar.
MARY. [_With a little shake._] I expect he'll keep it himself!
JOE. [_Miserably._] Perhaps.
[_There is silence for a moment; she has ceased to cry; suddenly she raises herself violently on her elbow._
MARY. You fool! You fool!
JOE. [_Pleading._] Mary!
MARY. With your stupid ideas of honesty! What have they done for you, or me?
JOE. [_Dropping his head again._] It's the kiddie, you know--her being a thief's daughter--
MARY. Is that worse than being the daughter of a pair of miserable beggars?
JOE. [_Under his breath._] I suppose it is, somehow--
MARY. You'd rather she went hungry?
JOE. [_Despairingly._] I don't know how it was--hearing his tramp up there--
MARY. You were afraid?
JOE. I don't want you taken to prison.
MARY. [_With a wail._] I'll be taken to the graveyard soon, in a pauper's coffin!
JOE. [_Starts suddenly._] Suppose we did that?
MARY. [_Staring._] The workhouse?
JOE. Why not, after all? That's what it will come to, sooner or later.
MARY. They'd separate us.
JOE. At least you and the kiddie'd have food.
MARY. They'd separate us. And I love you, Joe. My poor, poor Joe! I love you.
[_She nestles up to him and takes his hand._