The fanatics

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

First published February 1924
Second Edition April 1927
Second Impression (Second Edition) April 1927
Third Impression (Second Edition) July 1927

NOTE

At the first performance of the production at the Ambassadors Theatre several extensive cuts were made, and for particulars of these cuts for acting purposes application should be made to the author, c/o Messrs. Curtis Brown, Ltd., 6, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, W.C. 2.

All rights reserved.

Application regarding performing rights should be
addressed to the author care of the publishers.

All that follows takes place at Mr. Freeman’s house in the neighbourhood of Lancaster Gate; a large house in a terrace of others like it. It begins in the dining-room; middle-class, but sumptuously so. Dinner is in its final stages; a decanter of port is on the table, and a goodly array of the best fruits to be bought. Mr. Freeman is seated at the table very occupied with a fruit; Mrs. Freeman sits opposite to him; there is no one else in the room. Mr. Freeman is rather short and rather round, a little red and a little bald; Mrs. Freeman is his wife.

Mr. Freeman continues to eat his fruit—there is no other sound.

Mr. Freeman (when his mouth is unoccupied): Disgusting! (He reaches out and selects another fruit.) Makes me sick!

Mr. Freeman: Yellow.... What’s the time? (But he gets no answer.) Nobody in this house ever knows what the time is. (So he looks at his own watch.) D’Ha! He won’t be back to dinner now.... (He selects a cigar from a box on the table) ... preposterous.

Mr. Freeman: Of course I’m worried ... he left the office three-quarters of an hour too early for lunch, and he never came back at all. I haven’t set eyes on him.

Mr. Freeman: Playing the piano!!! I ask you ... a grown man ... what is ’e? Twenty-six.

Mr. Freeman: Nonsense. (Then he considers.) Oh, yes, twenty-eight. He walks calmly out of his office in the City in the middle of the morning, he leaves an afternoon’s work untouched and he comes home and PLAYS THE PIANO.

Mr. Freeman: I’m fond of music, but if I was to behave like that I’d be playing a barrel organ in a fortnight ... where you going?

Mrs. Freeman (when the door has closed safely): I’ve got something on my mind, too.

He’s not worth a damn in the office. He could be. (His indignation increases.) He walks in an hour late, he walks out an hour early, and he never walks back at all.... No “whys,” no “wherefores” ... when I think of all that I’ve done for that boy.... (He becomes conscious that the hand that isn’t holding a cigar is holding a letter) ... What’s this?

He left it about ... he’s had others like it ... he’s told Rosie to take them straight upstairs to him.

Mr. Freeman: What John does in his spare time is nothing to do with me. It’s not his spare time I’m bothered about ... it’s his working life.

Mrs. Freeman: He is engaged to Frankie ... suppose there should be anything serious with this other girl.

Mr. Freeman: ... Um.... I shouldn’t worry ... he’s not quite a fool.... Leave it to me. I’ll give him this.

Mr. Freeman: If a man neglects his work as John’s doing, he can’t expect to be happy.

Mr. Freeman: Funny-lookin’ feller ... always in the house. I know. That’s another thing; who is this feller?... I don’t know.

Mrs. Freeman (taking her son’s part): He’s always had the attic for his own ... hasn’t he? ... with his own friends.

Mr. Freeman: I know. I’ve never interfered. I’ve no wish to interfere ... when he was a baby in the nursery up there—or a schoolboy with his friends, but now ... here’s this feller ... he called yesterday when John was out—I met him on the stairs ... didn’t know him from Adam; we grinned ... dam’ silly.... Hullo!

It’s Frankie ... in the new car; with her father. Hullo! How are you! (He waves cordially. The window[14] being shut there it not the remotest chance of his being heard.) Hullo, Frankie ... pretty girl she’s getting. (He comes away from the window.) ’Spose she’s come for John. I shall speak to him to-night, when he comes in.

Mrs. Freeman: Well, we did make the arrangement he should be private upstairs—as if it were his own flat.

Mrs. Freeman: Nor have I ... he might take a flat of his own. I shouldn’t like that.

Mr. Freeman (back from the window; aside to his wife): It’s John. Take her into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Freeman: Let’s join Gwen, dear. It’s so much nicer in the drawing-room. Bring the chocolates if you like.

Mrs. Freeman (ushering Frankie out): Gwen’ll be so pleased. She’s only reading.

Mr. Freeman: You ought to have let your mother know you weren’t coming back to dinner.

John (puzzled): But ... surely ... I thought you were all going out to dinner with the Cleavers.

Of course, if you prefer your own company, that’s nothing to do with me, but your life from ten o’clock in the morning till five in the evening does belong to me. (In answer to a look from his son he expands that.) It[17] belongs to the firm. Now look here, young man, I can put this in a nutshell. You’ve been engaged to Frankie some time, on the understanding I make you a junior partner when you marry.

Mr. Freeman: Five hundred a year. A thousand when you marry; and a yearly rise after that. Of course your life belongs to the firm—and will do, more and more. It’s about time you realised that.

Mr. Freeman: Then I want to know why you left the office an hour before lunch—and never came back after lunch.

Mr. Freeman: I daresay it is; but it’s the sort of thing that’s got to be explained.

Mr. Freeman: I daresay I shan’t—but I’ll have a dam’ good try. I’m not quite a fool, though you think I am ... any other man employed in the firm who did what you’ve done to-day without good reason would get the sack. I want to know your reason. Exactly.

John: I want to. I got stuck—this morning in the office, I got an idea that I thought might unstick me ... I only meant to go out for a walk for a few minutes, but it came so clear in my head that I came home and worked.

Mr. Freeman: I see ... now look here ... I’ve got no objection to your writing articles, or whatever it is and strumming on the piano—it’s a very nice thing to be able to do ... these things may be all very well in their place—but their place is not the best working hours of your life ... that’s what you’ve got to understand. Now, listen to me, my boy, you’ve got a niche.

Mr. Freeman: Well, it isn’t comic. You’ve got a very pretty little income waiting for you; and a prettier little wife, but if you think you’re going to inherit the whole show mooning away a few hours at the office, when it happens to suit you, because I and others work[19] hard for you there all day—and have done for the best part of our lives—you’re vastly mistaken. The business is your bread and butter; your life; and you’ve got to give the best part of your life to it; you get an idea in your head, and that Robinson contract cropped up in the afternoon, and you precious nearly lost the firm a thousand pounds ... what have you got to say to that?

Mr. Freeman: You’re a perfect dam’ fool: work! You’ve got no sense of values.

Mr. Freeman: I’m not going to argue. It’s not going to happen again; do you grasp that?

Mr. Freeman: I daresay—but I can’t have your private life swarming all over my house. I can’t walk out of a room without falling over a perfect stranger.

John (going to the door, opening, and speaking out of it): Rosie ... show my friend in here, please.

——hang it all, if this feller’s going to spend half his time under my roof, I might at least know what to call him when we bump in the passage——

Mr. Freeman: Oh!... How d’you do? How d’you do? (He shakes hands.) Glad to make your acquaintance. I was just telling my boy here, I should like to—one likes to show a little decent hospitality.

John: I believe you saw Colin’s play the other night ... didn’t you go to the Criterion?—“A Pair of Pyjamas”——

Mr. Freeman: By jove yes ... my wife and I enjoyed it immensely ... most amusin’ ... most amusin’.... By jove! ... it’s a great success, isn’t it?

John: A year; and in America; and three touring companies; and in the colonies; and the world’s film rights.

Mr. Freeman: Wouldn’t you like to come into the drawing-room? ... my wife would be delighted to meet you ... she really did enjoy it immensely—very funny—very funny indeed—immensely.

John (cutting in): I’m going to take him upstairs. He’s been away and I’ve been away; we haven’t seen one another for months.

Mr. Freeman (rising): Well, I’m glad to have met you. I hope you’ll look in again one evening.

Mr. Freeman (going): See you again, John ... don’t forget Frankie’s here. Good night.

Colin: I can’t stay. I want to borrow your score of the new ballet. At least Margaret does. I’m taking her to hear it.

John (with some deliberation): We only have a certain amount of energy and vitality in us, Colin; and I’m using mine up on things that are utterly unimportant.

Colin: John! You can overdo ideals ... they can make one rather useless and a little bit silly.... I’ve been thinking about you a good deal while I’ve been away.... I’d made up my mind to tell you what I thought of you one of these days.

John: Come on; out with it; what have you been thinking? What’s wrong with me?

Colin: Well—to be quite frank with you—I think all this talk about the business being a waste of your life is rather stupid. The world’s in a devil of a mess; we’re all living on a volcano; but, as far as one can be sure of anything, your business is sure; you get a very good screw; you get all your evenings to yourself; in a world where ninety per cent of people are continually anxious about their livelihood, your comfort and comparative wealth are assured. You’re a damned lucky man, John, and you’ve got no right to go about grousing about yourself.

Colin: No. I agree to that difference—very humbly; but I don’t see what difference that makes about the business.

John: It makes the hell of a difference to me ... it’s hateful to talk about it ... but there it is.

John (responding): There were several of us, Colin, who used to talk about the whole thing out there; I mean, why the whole thing had happened, and what we were going to do about it when it was over ... a good many of us to start with ... we got fewer; the lucky ones were killed outright. Jack Bardsley got half his face blown away and can’t talk now; Peter Glen’s blind; Chris—Chris was engaged to a most attractive girl ... he was mad about her ... used to talk to her at night ... I heard him once, when he thought I was asleep—he got a bit of shrapnel in his stomach and thighs, and had to be cut away. He never married. Little Westerby’s mad.... I’m the only one left.... Sometimes I think I’ve got no right to be alive at all, Colin—just a fluke ... there are millions of my age, skull and bone and rotting flesh just under the earth over there....

If the war hadn’t happened I should have married Frankie; and gone into the business, and settled down to it ... but I can’t just go on using my life up aimlessly—or what seems to me aimlessly, as if nothing had happened ... to hear them talk—father and his lot, you’d think nothing had happened—my God!

It’s hard to talk about it; it’s hard to feel a thing very deeply, and talk about it, and not sound priggish; but I must talk to somebody; you’re the only one.

John: You’re an idealist, really. You wrote “A Pair of Pyjamas,” and you’ve made the devil of a lot of money, but you know the real worth of things; that’s why you get angry with me when I still care about ideals; it makes you uncomfortable; and you hate being uncomfortable, because you’ve made too much money.

John: For the love of God, don’t! Not till you need. Colin, things can’t go on like they are with me, I want your advice.

Colin: You ought to stick to the business, and do your own work in the evenings.

John: ... We fought like hell out there all day and all night; we didn’t just let off a few guns in the evenings, as a sort of hobby, after we’d spent the day doing something else. If we’re going to have any sort of world for our children after those years of bloody slaughter,[26] it seems to me we’ve got to fight like hell all the time now. It’s no good writing anything unconsidered these days. One must read, and think, and meet people, and be quiet.... You can’t serve God and Mammon. There are some jolly good things in that book; Colin, it’s dreadful to spend one’s best energies doing something, when you feel you ought to be doing something else.

John: I’ve got something horrible. My father told me it was a Niche: you say it’s a Nurge!

Colin: It’s what Quakers get. The spirit urges and they feel wicked if they don’t follow.

John: And, incidentally, while I mess on day after day, I’m getting my life into more of a muddle. I feel a cad about Frankie, and I feel a cad about Toby; I really don’t know what I ought to do about either of them.

John: Before I went to France. The daughter of my father’s partner; both families delighted; and they’ve all taken it up at the point where it was left off as if it was just the same; it isn’t, nothing’s just the same ... for one thing when I was engaged I was innocent ... quite ... one learnt more than soldiering in France.

Colin: I don’t know why you should put that down to the war—it happens to some of us even in peace time.

John: In the old days Frankie and I used to go about together a lot—like any respectably engaged couple.

John: I used to take her to the theatre, and straight back to her house afterwards; her mother couldn’t sleep unless she knew Frankie was in; and I always said good night to her on her doorstep with a kiss—quite a nice one, but perfectly respectable.

John: That was all. I don’t say I never wanted any more. However, I didn’t expect any more; I didn’t know any more, and I was quite ready to go on like that till we were married.

John: I was terrified of getting killed in France before I’d had any experience at all.

John: Just before an attack, when I was quite sure I was going to get knocked out, I went off the deep end and had my experience.

John: Then we attacked ... it was funny; I remember feeling very proud of myself—and I didn’t get knocked out. Afterwards I thought a great deal about that first little French girl, and about Frankie; and one night I realised I loved Frankie desperately, because I wanted her like that; and because of Frankie I kept clear of any more of it.... I just lived for my next leave, and the moment when I should see Frankie again ...[28] and the first time we were alone again—it was in this room—I was standing over there and she came in, and came towards me and I went to meet her, and I put my arms round her and held her close—closer than I’d ever done before. My God, I loved her that moment....

John: She pushed me away. She hardly said anything; but she made me feel that she was a little angry and a little indignant—I’ve never felt such a fool in my life ... before I went back to the front that leave, I’d met Toby.

John: I know. But I was certain they were all going out to dinner. And she’s always wanted to see the attic; and they haven’t gone out; and now Frankie’s turned up!

John: I’m desperately anxious to get Toby up there without her meeting anybody. It’s an underhand business; it’s got to stop. (He is troubled.) They’ve never been so close; in any sort of way.... Colin, I don’t make love to Frankie; not at all; she doesn’t seem to want it.

John: Yes, I think so; that’s the trouble. I never get any response from her. It makes me rather uncomfortable with her, and shy! She doesn’t seem to miss anything ... but, unless, in my marriage, that part of it is as perfect, and as beautiful as ... as Toby has taught me it can be, my marriage will be a failure. I’m getting afraid it isn’t in Frankie.

John: Go to Frankie and either break off our engagement, or else ask her to come away with me somewhere.... I’m perfectly serious; you may say “There it is ... it’s the way Civilisation has always managed it.” Civilisation made millions of young people kill and maim and torture one another for five bloody years—there’s something wrong with Civilisation. I don’t mean that because a thing was there before the war it must be wrong—but it may be ... a good many things have got to be thought out again from the beginning—this business of marriage is one of them.

Gwen: A man played some very modern music—and you asked me what I thought of it; I didn’t like it a bit really, but I didn’t like to say so; and you said it was the sort of music one never ought to hear for the first time.

Colin: Not such a bad remark; I wonder where I heard it ... do you play and sing, and have your brother’s accomplishments?

John (who has stopped to select a fruit from the table—as he disappears): Painting’s Gwen’s forte.

Gwen: That’s mine. (She indicates a little painting on the wall that is hung close to another.... He goes to it.) I was very young.

Gwen (simply): I wanted to marry him ... only ... well, he was quite poor, so it was stopped. And then he was killed.

Colin: I’m taking somebody. I’ve got the last two seats in the house.... Will you come to-morrow night?

Colin: If I come in after the ballet—to tell you whether I’ve got tickets—will you have disappeared?

Colin: Thanks ... I must be off.... (To Gwen) Then I won’t say good night.... John, I’m going to look in on my way back from the show.

John: If you’re going into the drawing-room, I wish you’d tell Frankie I want to see her.

John (a little taken aback): Well—he’s made a lot of money; he’s got a beautiful flat and a lovely little cottage in the country; he knows lots of people; there’s a queer superficial cynicism about him—but if I was in trouble I’d sooner go to him than to anybody I know——

John: He married when he was quite young; about twenty I believe and it failed; I think he divorced her; he’s never found anything permanent since.

John (to Rosie, who is clearing away): You’ll show my friend straight up into the attic, Rosie, when she comes—won’t you?

John: ... If I’m up there when Miss Frankie is going you might give me a whistle on it, will you? ... don’t wait for an answer ... just blow it three times and I’ll know what it means.

Frankie: But you can’t talk about giving up the business ... after all it’s going to make our marriage possible, isn’t it——?

Frankie: John!... (She goes to him and stands quite close to him, playing with the lapel of his coat ... her voice is thrillingly low and eager.) I’ve been thinking such lots about the time when we’re married.

Frankie: Yes. Listen!... If we don’t furnish those two top rooms at once, I think we’ll be able to have two servants; I’ve been going all through it with mother[36] to-day—my dear, the prices of things are awful—but that’ll mean one to wait at dinner, and that’s ever so much nicer—and I’m going to give you such lovely little dinners—when you bring your friends home—and p’r’aps when you don’t sometimes!... Oh, and I’ve furnished your study to-day in my head—it’s going to be ever so comfy ... and you can write your book there in the evenings ... I won’t come near you if you don’t want me to ... you know, dear, we couldn’t have a smaller house than the little one at the corner, could we? ... and it’s really ever so cheap.

Mr. Freeman: Hullo! Sorry! Thought you were upstairs. Your father’s back; the car’s out there. But, look here, you stay for a bit if you like. John can walk home with you.

Mrs. Freeman: Gone out to the car with Mr. Sewell. Are you going to stay, Frankie?

Gwen: It’s dark out there; I began talking; I thought it was you at first, Frankie.

Mr. Freeman: Then why the deuce did he say it was? You thought it was Frankie. Was it a man or a woman?

Mrs. Freeman: Let’s go into the drawing-room, Frankie—it’s so much nicer there.

Mr. Freeman: Will you please not say “Oh, my goodness” to me.... Go and tell Rosie I want her.

Mr. Freeman: She’s up there now? ... is she? ... what’s the matter with you, girl? ... is she?

The attic that has been in turn John’s nursery, his school-room, and is now his flat. Plain distempered walls; a few pictures—some reproductions of Orpen and Augustus John, and of a Nevinson war picture called “The Doctor”; books; some statuettes; a baby grand piano, littered with manuscript music; two tennis racquets and plenty of comfortable places to sit. The fire-place, which has been converted to a gas-stove, is in the middle of the footlights—that is to say it is imagined—but the chairs are placed so that a group sitting round the imagined gas-fire, sit directly facing the audience, and quite intimately close to the footlights. Two doors; one into his bedroom, the other on to the landing at the head of the staircase.

Rosie shows in Toby. Toby is in the chorus of a musical comedy in a West End theatre. Slight and very pretty, with fair hair and large blue eyes. If you were to talk to her at all confidentially, she would tell you that she thought musical comedy silly, and the other girls in the chorus awfully empty; indeed she has a good deal of sense—but not of her own. Often she could have “got off” with middle-aged business men with money, or with young men with well-brushed hair and incomes; but such were of “no use” to her. Through a curious quality in her she attracts, and is attracted by artists; her life has been mostly in studios and cafés, and from her surroundings, and from the artists that have been in her life, she has acquired her sense and taste.

Rosie: This is what we call Mr. John’s attic ... you’ve got to wait here. I’ll tell him. (She is going; as she reaches the door.)

Toby: When you say things you don’t mean ... you never wanted me to come here ... you don’t want me now.... If you think I don’t know ... that’s why I’ve come. If you’d had the courage to say out you didn’t want me here, I wouldn’t of....

... I wish I hadn’t now; coming all up through a great horrid strange house; I nearly went away again.

John (getting happier): Also ... if you hadn’t come, I shouldn’t be able to give you something I’ve got for you.

Toby: Please; I’m not cross any more. (Whispering very prettily.) Where is it?

Toby: Oh, you dear! It’s the one I saw in Shaftesbury Avenue ... isn’t it sweet? ... it cost a terrible lot ... you are awful to spend so much money on me. I love it. (She puts it in a chair to look at it.) Think I’ll look nice in it?

John: Put the light out ... the switch is there by the door ... there, silly ... just in front of you ... that’s right.

Toby: It’s a funny gas-stove ... Mabel Claridge has got one like that in her room ... that man gave her another ring yesterday ... must of cost hundreds. She says there is nothing in it ... I don’t think.

John: Let me think of a few of the things ... to begin with, everything on the piano’s yours.

John: Oh, why!... ’Cos there’s nobody else in the whole world with whom I can be quiet and effortless with all the barriers down.

John: Just because you can slip out of your frock, like you did, as if I wasn’t there and come close into my arms when I ask you, without any fuss.

Toby (her face very close to him—her very low voice a lover’s): ’Course there isn’t any fuss—’cos I want to come close into your arms.

John: However much you’re loving me I can always see the fun of it dancing behind your eyes ... you’ve taught me that ... whatever happens I shall be eternally grateful.

John: I don’t know.... I don’t want anything to happen any more ever.... I want to sit here like this for ever and ever Amen.

Mr. Freeman (after an appalling hiatus of silence, failing to cope with this new situation and throwing the scented letter on to the table): Yours.... Found it among mine.

John (rattled): Er ... thanks.... (Feebly) This is my father, my father—Miss Clyde.

Mr. Freeman: I’ll see you about this in the morning. (At the door he turns and starts to speak.) Frankie—— (He gets Toby in his vision again and collapses.) No, never mind ... I’ll see you in the morning.

Gwen: I thought you wouldn’t mind me coming up—father told me you were alone.

Gwen (tactful): I’ll be in my room.... I shan’t go to bed; I wish you’d give me a call later.

Toby’s Voice: I’m sorry I was cross ... it wasn’t your fault. I’ve got something to show you ... wait a sec....

John: ... I’d rather you didn’t say anything about it till she’s gone, please.

Toby: Show me down to the front door, please. (She crosses at once to the other door; John following.)

Toby: Thanks, I can look after myself. Don’t you worry ... show me downstairs in case I meet anybody....

Frankie: Oh, I am angry. It makes you wonder whether there are any decent men in the world. I didn’t know John was a cad.... (In a burst of rage) Oh, the beast! the beast! Oh, it makes me furious.... While that—girl was waiting up here for him he wanted to kiss me.

Frankie: Oh, I daresay she had plenty to do with it—you can easily see what sort she is.

Frankie (with fine ironic scorn): Oh, if it wasn’t her fault, I suppose you’ll say it’s mine next.

Gwen: If I was engaged to a man, and he wouldn’t let me kiss him, I’d jolly well go and kiss somebody else.

Gwen: It’s what I’d want my man to feel for me ... if ever I have a man in love with me again that I want, I ... (But Frankie is crying.) Oh, Frankie. (She goes to her.) Don’t cry ... I didn’t mean what I said ... yes I did ... but not to say it like that ... Frankie ... it isn’t a bit simple.

Gwen: Can I go in there (indicating his bedroom)? I should be cross-examined, and I feel all wrong for them downstairs to-night.

John (quietly, almost tonelessly, speaking facts): I met her during the war when I was on leave ... we had[58] supper after the theatre, and I went back to her flat—and stayed there ... and I’ve been there, sometimes, ever since.

Frankie: I never dreamed of anything like it.... I trusted you ... I hate being deceived ... it’s been going on all this time and I never knew it ... all the time you were with me.

John (quickly): But I never made love to you ... it’s been absolutely apart from the rest of my life here. She’s never been here before.

John: No.... They were two quite distinct relationships, mine with you—and with her.

John: I’ve not made love to you, not because I haven’t wanted to, but because you didn’t want me to....

Frankie: I’m glad I didn’t. I don’t want to share that sort of thing, thank you.

John: All this time, I’ve hoped something would flare up between us, and then it would have been perfect—but it hasn’t.

Frankie (through her tears): And this morning I was talking to mother about furnishing ... and the little house ... it’s arranged, nearly ... what’ll everybody say? Oh, it’s too bad of you!

John: I’m awfully sorry; I ought to have had it out before; I’m sorry; don’t cry....

Rosie: About that blow-pipe ... it wasn’t my fault ... ’e blowed; I couldn’t stop him.

Gwen’s Voice: You’re very quiet! ... can I come back? Can I...? John!... Frankie!...

Oh, I beg your pardon!... I mean.... (She comes into the room with a laugh.)...

Colin: I met him on the stairs. Margaret refused to come up till she’d heard from his own lips that we were wanted: I came up.

Margaret: It’s raining; and he’s got no coat, and slippers. (To Colin.) You ought to go and fetch him in.

Margaret: It’s dreadfully late to call; but Colin was so anxious to come back here.

Margaret: He’s unusually easy enough to manage; to-night he was as obstinate as a pig. He would come; said he wanted to see John particularly. And there was only the most expensive box left for to-morrow night. He would get it. It cost him about twelve guineas. I wonder who he’s going to take.

Gwen: Rather. It was something outside home I wasn’t cross-examined about. I often envy you.

Margaret: I had a good training as a secretary. Then an election came and I had a girl to help me, and I found I could boss her. So I got three girls and bossed them—made them work for me, instead of me working for somebody else. Now I’ve got ten in the office—and several young men.

Margaret: It’s very interesting. The girls are interesting, too; they bring all their troubles to me.

Frankie: I thought I’d go to bed, and then I thought I wouldn’t. I should just lie and think; and I heard you come up.

I’ve been crying; I’ve got that over, now I’ve got used to the idea. John says he doesn’t love me.

Frankie (unexpectedly defiant): Well, I’m quite sure I don’t love him! I was sobbing away upstairs, but I found it was for the drawing-room curtains I’m not going to buy; not for him. Of course, I’m angry and hurt at being deceived. And I don’t see why I shouldn’t be!... But you can say what you like.

Gwen: If I ask you some questions—things that’ll help me if I know—will you answer them?

Gwen: Have you ever let anybody love you? You know what I mean. Words are difficult—I don’t want to be frightened by them.... Have you?

Gwen: Don’t laugh, please. I don’t mean it to be anything to laugh at. I ask because I want to know. Not about you, but about love. I’m ashamed to be as old as I am, and not know—You have knowledge, and I haven’t.... So will you tell me, please?

Margaret (beginning slowly in recollection): A man I was doing some work for asked me to join a walking party in the Lakes. We started all together. Half-way through, he and I branched off to walk across a pass[66] and meet the others on the other side. I don’t know whether he meant to meet them. I meant to. But we didn’t.

Margaret: About thirty. We walked among mountains and talked a great deal, and when it was getting dark, we reached an inn. And there we had dinner, and there we stopped.

Margaret: It’s queer. We hadn’t got love, which nowadays seems to me the only justification—yet I’ve never had any regrets.

Margaret: We were full of air and sky, and ideas for making the world better; probably very silly, but quite genuine. And he was very gentle and understanding.

Margaret: We didn’t. We walked in the other direction for a week. Then we came back to London.

Margaret: Then he fell in love with another girl. I daresay he taught her what he taught me. That seems to be his mission in life!

Frankie (indignant): That’s what always happens—weren’t you furious and ashamed?

Margaret: I was awfully pleased with myself! I was living in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. I couldn’t afford a room of my own, or to go out in the evenings. I used to have to sit in the drawing-room with a lot of old spinster ladies, knitting and playing patience and talking scandal. Before the Lakes, I used to think I should go mad, sometimes; but afterwards, when I looked round at them all, there was a sort of triumphant glee in me. I used to say to myself, “I know more about life than you do. Poor old things!”

Margaret: I fell in love; so it’s not easy to talk about. I lived with him. For three years. The best time of my life. That’s all.

Margaret (painfully): We meant to get married ... when we could afford children. And then I ended it.

Margaret: At least it was my fault. My man was away; and a boy fell in love with me; it was in the middle of the war when it seemed it would go on for ever. We[68] met at a friend’s house; he was in khaki; at a house party. And then he came to have tea with me at my flat.

Margaret: I couldn’t have married him. But he was very strong, and good-looking ... and going back to the front. They knew what they were going back to, and they laughed. He was the first man younger than I was who told me that he loved me; and on his last night in England, as if he was my child, I wanted to give him everything he asked for. And he asked for me and—I was glad.

Margaret: We went to an hotel. We had dinner in the West End. Across the little table—with a shaded light on it—I kept catching him looking at me.... One evening when nothing mattered but our happiness. Then he went back to France, and I went home and told my man—and my life smashed.

Margaret: Oh yes, he understood. We went to the Queen’s Hall the night I told him, and when we got home talked till five in the morning; it didn’t smash all at once—it just made a difference.

Margaret: Nor do I—altogether. He had an affair soon afterwards. You see, he’d given up everything of that sort for me, and I didn’t ... so he didn’t ... it broke up our life together. Freedom’s a devastating thing ... a few hours I shall never forget, and a year of hell afterwards, and I’ve never really made up my[69] mind whether I’m glad or sorry.... (To Frankie) Do you disapprove of me very much?

Frankie: When I marry I shall have kept myself for him, whoever he is. And I hope he will, too.

Margaret: Another young man fell in love with me. (She turns to Frankie with a smile.) I’m sorry! I know it sounds dreadful saying them one after the other, quickly, like this! But there was a year of being lonely—desperately lonely. And it hurt the young man, too; so I let him take me away.

Margaret: And not only innocent; ignorant. He knew his own needs, vaguely; not mine, at all. I suffered from his ignorance.... But he taught me something.

Margaret: They’re married to men who don’t know how to make love. You see, without gentleness and sensitiveness and consideration—and much that comes from knowledge, what ought to be complete harmony can be very disharmonious, what ought to be utterly satisfying to body and soul can be utterly nerve-racking and unsatisfactory.... Somebody said that a man who can’t make love is like an Orang-Utang playing the fiddle.... It wants learning—the fiddle.

Margaret: I daresay it’s not so important if it’s right. It’s all-important if it’s wrong.

Margaret: If you can’t make love beautiful for your man, sooner or later, he’ll go to someone who can; or he’ll want to, which is as bad.

Margaret: I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. Gwen asked me. I’ve told you.

John (sotto voce, getting out of his wet coat, disappearing into his bedroom with it): A damned nuisance.

Colin: And realises half one’s life has gone, and there’s an end to it some day, one is apt to get lonely. A lost atom in an infinity of blackness. In that blackness is despair. Only one thing can dispel it—Love. Real love. None of your free sort, John!

Colin: I mean that love between two people that doesn’t need anything else, that won’t tolerate anything else, that’s lasting and tyrannical and jealous, is the only kind that’s worth while.

John: You’ve been at it twenty years. Have you ever had an experience which might be called free?

John: You’ve passed the years of adventure, and you want to settle down. So you say: “Ah, I’m wise and sane and right, and all you poor young people are wrong.”

Frankie (very much at John): Do you think you know all about it because you’re wrong?

John: Oh, Frankie! If we sat down with a pencil and paper and tried to work out a really unclean, intolerant, silly system, we couldn’t work out a worse one than exists to-day. Do you realise that?

John: Well—to start with ... the obvious things. (He talks without difficulty, speaking what he has thought about.) Hundreds of thousands of girls on the streets; and an incredible amount of sex disease. One in every five infected! A million or so girls more than men doomed to a life without love. Some millions of separated people living without love and not allowed to marry again. Thousands of marriages where only distaste, and hate, remain. Ugliness, and cruelty, and intolerance about the whole subject that makes the sum of unnecessary suffering almost incredible. Does all that sound like a success? After all, we’re responsible to the next generation for the sort of world they’ll find. Have we any right to say, “Oh,[73] that’s all right; we can’t do better than that. We needn’t bother”? Look at all the girls in the world, Frankie—one lot selling themselves to any man who can pay them; the rest brought up in a sort of prison of asceticism, as candidates for the privilege of becoming a man’s married housekeeper.

Colin: Oh, come, John! Nowadays there are a great many “betwixt and betweeners,” as it were!

John (definitely, and as the result of previous thought): The Church is losing its influence.

John: For hundreds of years the Church has had the most enormous influence by its hold over the lives of men and women in this way. Hasn’t it?

John: It regards sex as sin. It’s holy when the Church permits it in matrimony; and then it’s got to remain holy, for ever and ever Amen.

John: They couldn’t stop people loving outside their rules; but they’ve made them ashamed of it. They’ve made sex a secret furtive thing. Well, anyhow, we’ve got our chance now.

John: The Church built the system, and as a binding force it’s no longer effective. Here’s your society—in a certain mould; but the power that did the moulding, that held it together, has gone. It’s vaguely keeping its shape, at present—but it’s crumbling. It must crumble; and it’ll have to be remodelled. That was going on, anyhow. Then the war came. Everything shaken to its foundations. Personal beliefs, institutions—everything. The world’s fluid. That’s why it’s all so damnably important now.

Frankie: If it’s all as bad as you say, surely if people lived as Religion tells them, all these terrible things wouldn’t happen?

John: That’s exactly what the Church says. “Society must be purified. Men and women must be taught not to sin.” But what they mean by purifying society is simply forcing it back under the old rules; what they mean by Sin is any infringement of those rules. What we say is: it’s the very narrowness of their rules that has made the mess, it’s the reverse side of their mistakenness ... “they make of their bodies a rampart for the protection[75] of respectable families”—that’s what Balzac says of prostitutes. “Sacrifices on the altar of monogamy”—Schopenhauer. Prostitution means disease. You can’t do away with these things by the old rules. The old rules are the cause of them. Practice proves it: the countries with easier divorce laws don’t have more promiscuity; less. You must tackle the business with new ideas—anyhow, it’s happening——

John: Compare the world of to-day and the Christian ideal of morality; a man must love one woman and one woman only; a woman must love one man and one man only; there must be no sex experience of any kind before or after marriage. That’s the ideal. And it’s tremendously important to realise it is the ideal; because either you agree with it and you’ve got to strive ruthlessly towards it, or you don’t agree with it, and you’ve got to find another.

John: Take any average collection of people—take any ordinary audience at a theatre! How many men do you suppose have loved only their wives?

John: Decent men don’t pick up girls off the streets. They love decent women. But if decent men love decent women—where are the decent women? All over the place.

John: It comes down to a question of personal responsibility. When outside rules go, inside rules have got to take their places.

John: I mean, life was probably fairly simple to the early Victorian girl. She was brought up entirely without any sex in her life, waiting for a man to marry her. Anything else was so unthinkable that she didn’t think about it. The rules of her conduct were imposed from without. She had no decisions to make. So she didn’t worry. It’s different now.

John: She’s got no respect for the outside rules; she’s got to find her inside ones. She is worrying. Whether[77] you like it or not, she is. A great deal. Talking, thinking, deciding. Not always as her elders would like. But there are some fine people among ’em; they’ll do the devil of a lot to make a better world.

Frankie: If Religion’s going to have nothing to do with your new world, what is?

John: You’re mixing up religion and the Church. There’s got to be a religious spirit; that’s essential; I mean the spirit that makes you strive to do the best with your life. I believe some young people to-day want to live according to their beliefs with a sincerity that’s religious—anyhow it’s causing nearly as much trouble.

Gwen: I know I’m sick of living at home; I know I’m sick of living alone. The obvious way out is to get married. But I don’t see how I can ever be certain of wanting to live all alone with the same person for the rest of my life.

John: Frankie, it’s been on the tip of my tongue during these last months to ask you where you wanted to go most in all the world: and then to ask you to come with me there, straight away.

John: No, Gwen. Much more respectable than that. Not a trial “affair.” A trial marriage. We should have gone definitely to find out whether we were suited for life.

John: If we parted it would mean it wasn’t successful. It would be a very good thing for both of us that we weren’t tied up for life.

John: Somebody asked me to rearrange the world; and I’m doing it. I certainly wouldn’t sweep away all existing marriage laws all at once——

John: I should go all out for a much larger tolerance; I should allow certain special relationships, within the present system, to be open and decent and honourable.

Colin: Good heavens! Somebody’s found something they can’t say. It must be awful.

Frankie: Well—if you go away with somebody—and it’s a failure, and you part, for the girl it’s not just as you were, is it?

John: No. I see what you mean ... it seems to me, chastity is a thing nobody has any right to inflict upon anybody else.

John: It may be fine when it’s undertaken from real personal belief, but it’s not worth tuppence when it’s meant a tremendous effort of starvation that achieves nothing but starvation.

Margaret: You know a lot of girls are quite tranquil and untouched by all this, until it’s thrust under their noses.

Frankie: That’s it. That’s where you’re so wrong, John. You don’t save girls from trouble, you make it for them.

Gwen: Quite a lot aren’t tranquil. It’s wicked to keep people from love, when you needn’t.

John: Surely you have to deal with every case on its merits. When I have a daughter——

John: I shall want my daughter to be happily married; and this is the real answer to you, Frankie. If you want a happy, lasting marriage, the love-making part of it has got to be successful.

John: It’s fundamental. Bed-rock. The rock on which most marriages split, and up to now it’s been just left to chance ... a girl must have absolutely no real emotional experience until she’s married. Her first real experience may alter her whole being, yet by the time she’s allowed that first experience she must have tied herself up for life. Now I don’t think that’s merely silly. I think it’s definitely wrong.

Colin: Yes, my child, but I think you’ve got to be extremely careful over this experimenting business of yours.

Colin: You’ve got the artistic temperament, God help you. Most people haven’t. The majority of ordinary respectable human beings just want quiet, uneventful, peaceful lives.

Colin: You can just as easily wreck people’s happiness by persuading them to go experimenting all over the place, as by denying them the right to do it.

Gwen: Don’t just say “Don’t, don’t, don’t.” That’s negative ... a denial of things. We can’t live by that.

Colin: My dear—Miss Freeman, I’m not denying the years of adventure, as John calls them. Anyhow, they’ll remain for a good many, whatever we say. But when it comes to arranging a new system, keep adventure for adventure’s sake for the unfortunate artistic people.[82] They’ll hurt themselves. And make a song about it. But if ordinary people get into the habit of fluttering from experience to experience they damned easily lose the stability or the capacity for happiness. And undisturbed love between two people is the highest happiness.

Colin: I’m not denying the right of the ordinary person to experiment, but it ought to be for the definite object of discovering a true lover, and making a lasting marriage.

John: And if you help people to find their real mates, and when they’ve made a mistake, help them out of it quietly and decently, you’ll have many more happy marriages and much less beastliness.

Margaret (rising): Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that!! Now I’m going home. Good night, Gwen.

Colin: I suppose you wouldn’t care to come for a walk with me to-morrow afternoon?

Colin: If I came for you in a car about ten, we might get down to the sea and back in time to dress for dinner and the ballet.

John: I wish they’d stayed. We might have had a decent talk! I’m going to do some work.

Mr. Freeman: There’s going to be a first-class row in this house this afternoon. A first-class row.... Is he up there?

Mrs. Freeman: It’s Florence’s day out. He has his tea down here on Thursdays.

Mr. Freeman (at the speaking-tube): Hullo!... John! Is that you? Are you up there!... What d’you mean “No!?”... I want a word with you.... When you’ve had your tea.... Yes; it’s waiting. (He comes away from the tube.) I’ll teach him to be funny!

Mr. Freeman: Yes. (He paces again) ... came like a thunderbolt; this afternoon was absolutely the first I’d heard of it.... I’ve a good mind to pop round and see Frankie, or her father; shouldn’t stay; be back here before he’s finished his tea; ... a week ago; never a word to anyone; a week—I didn’t tell you all about that evening; that girl up in his room; when I went in there she was ... well, never mind—and then this morning, he walks into my office, as calm as you like, and informs me, if you please, he does not intend to marry Frankie.... And that’s not all. Oh no. Not by any[90] means. He’s going to leave the business.... Leave it ... throw the whole thing up.

Mr. Freeman: I’m not quite sure. But whatever I said, it’s nothing to what I’m going to say! I’ve had about as much as I’m going to put up with!... It’s such a dam’ bad influence on Gwen, too.... D’you realise she’s only been in to dinner once this week?

Mr. Freeman: Does he?! I don’t care how nice he is, when it comes to taking my daughter out six times a week!

Mr. Freeman: I’ve had enough. That’s what it amounts to. And my foot’s coming down—pretty hard.[91] (He goes to speaking-tube again.) Hullo.... I want to see you; when you’ve had your tea; ... you’re not going out? very well; when you’ve had your tea. (He replaces the tube.) I think I will just look round and see Frankie; and the old man, if he’s in; shan’t stay; because I’m coming back to talk to John ... a fine old rumpus; that’s what there’s going to be; back almost directly.

Mrs. Freeman: Oh yes; that’s it: Mackenzie. I never can remember. It’s such a difficult name. Nothing to get hold of. If it was Mackintosh ... rain or toffee; Mackenzie ... Mackenzie ... he seems a very nice man.

Mrs. Freeman (rising): I’ve ordered some fresh tea. I’m going into the drawing-room. (At the door.) You’ll be in to dinner to-night?

Rosie (with sudden unexpected vigour; turning on him): It’s all very well for you!

Rosie: I’d never of done it, if it ’adn’t been for you. I’ve ’eard yer. Talkin’!... “What ’arm is there in it?” “Why shouldn’t a girl ’ave a good time?” Next time you tell her that, you tell ’er what’ll ’appen to ’er.

Rosie: I’m frightened. I am, straight. (She stares at them, in vague terror.) You’re ’elpless; you know what I mean: you go into the next room, and it’s everywhere; you can’t get away from it. (Her look seems to hypnotise[94] them; they can find no words. She continues:) It’s bad enough when you’re married, and ’ave a ’usband to look after yer; and yer mother’s pleased.... I can’t never tell my mother. I can’t tell nobody.

Rosie: Oh, it’s all right for you, miss—you don’t know. You can’t do nothing. I went to a chemist w’ot ’e told me of—a long way off it was, on a tram—and they as good as kicked me out. Then I goes to a doctor; I ’as to go alone. I rings the bell, and the man w’ot opened the door, ’e looked at me—’e seemed to know; and the doctor said ’e couldn’t do nothing. It’s finished me.

Rosie: Yes. (She hesitates. Then:) ... I’m sorry—what I said. It’s kind o’ yer; then, you’re kind all right ... and if you’re a bit orf, you can’t ’elp it; I mean, you can’t really know—can yer?... It’s an awful thing to ’appen to anyone ... you gets to ’ate yerself.

Gwen: Oh no. (She adds, rather lightly to help:) After all, it might happen to any of us.

Rosie (fiercely): Don’t you never let it ’appen to you, miss. You take care you ’as ’im, safe, ’e’ll marry yer, before you does anything. Me! I lied awake all last night. Throw myself in the river—that’s about what I’m fit for now.

Rosie: Well, other girls do, don’t they? Nobody couldn’t blame me then; p’r’aps they’d be sorry.... ’Ere, I must get. That old cook’ll be after me. She’s a one. Work’s something; stops yer thinkin’.

John (gently but firmly): Now, look here, Rosie; you’ve told us and you’re not alone any more. And we’re going to stand by you and see you safe. See? Whatever happens, we’ll see you safe right through and out the other side.

John: ’Tisn’t. We’re just all in the world together; that’s all.... You’re coming back as soon as you can get away from cook.

Gwen: Well ... you’ve got to remember when you talk about all this, it does happen to people. It happened to the eldest Gillingham girl.... I didn’t know much about it; but she had the most terrible time.... You can imagine ... what Rosie said—helpless ... awful. (She thinks for a while; then her eyes, wandering, light on the tea-things.) Do you want some tea?

Gwen: ... It doesn’t frighten me ... really ... not if you stop to think ... you needn’t have a baby, need you?

Gwen: If you make up your mind it’s not wrong to love without having children, it’s awfully weak to change your mind just because someone else has one by mistake, isn’t it?

Gwen: But, Jacko ... you know ... all the same ... the people who are against you would pick on Rosie; they’d say, there’s a girl with her life ruined, and her baby’s life ruined; and if you had your way, there’d be more and more like her....

John: ... Well ... in the first place: there are plenty of Roses, now, aren’t there?

John: Thousands. The streets are strewn with their petals; and the winds that strew them, blow out of unhappy homes.

John: Out of unsuccessful marriages; and lonely separations. They can’t boast such a success with their Roses, as things are.

John: And in the second place, if Rosie’d been your daughter, or mine, she’d have had a different education about it all.... Wouldn’t she?

John: What Rosie knows, she knows from cinemas, and giggling talks with other girls and occasional young men. Whatever “teaching” she’s had, has been just Don’t.

John: Exactly; about its real possibilities, and its real dangers, she knew nothing; and along comes this man; and over she goes!... If she’d belonged to us, she’d have known what she was doing; either she wouldn’t have had an affair with this man at all—he’s apparently left her in the lurch—or, if it was a thing of real value in their lives, she wouldn’t have had a child; unless she wanted it; and was prepared to face up to the whole business.

John: And in the third place, now that it has happened, half her trouble is her fear; the disgrace of it. If instead of cursing her, and blaming her, and pushing her away, people would help her, it wouldn’t be so very terrible.

John: Gwen; an epileptic woman in a slum can have twelve children by a confirmed drunkard. Which is worse? That; or this baby of Rosie’s? But as long as it’s in “holy matrimony,” people can have dozens of children with no earthly chance of looking after them—and your moralists make no objection; but they’ll torture young Rosie till she thinks of suicide.... The whole question of children—I’m sure it’s a matter of clear thinking. It’s so damned important we should think clearly.... Love between two people is a personal relationship.

John: But as soon as you have a child, it’s more than personal; it’s a social relationship.

John: And the Law oughtn’t to be concerned with the personal side of it at all; but with the social—with the obligations to the children.

John: But it’s just because as many permanent happy marriages as possible seems the best way it’s so damned important for people to make a good choice ... with full knowledge ... and so, with a real hope of being lasting and happy; and to help them out when they’ve made a mistake ... it wouldn’t be so difficult if people would be open-minded and sane about it ... people just point out difficulties and dangers, and think they’ve smashed our case ... of course there’d be difficulties and unhappiness; love’s not simple ... but look at it all now. That’s what they forget. Look at it now....

When one thinks of the Prejudices, and Intolerance; of all the Righteousness that stands between us and a happier world, it drives one mad.... Have you walked through a slum lately?

John: I did; yesterday; ... thousands of babies rolling about in filth; and you only see them outside, where at least there’s a square inch of open sky above them.

Think of them inside. Whole families in one room. The mothers and fathers, growing brothers and sisters, and new-born babies; all together; day and night; in every city in the civilised world.... Think of it, for a moment ... intimately.... Good God! Talk about[100] leading little children astray. A civilisation that tolerates it ought to have a millstone round its neck; ... as a matter of fact, it has; the thing itself is a millstone; dragging us down; fast.

John: How! Why: if anybody has the quality to rise out of it, he gets on at his job, marries above him and doesn’t have children. The worst are pouring out children, the best are more or less barren.

Gwen: But, John, if the worst are increasing so much the fastest, things may get worse and worse.

John: Religion doesn’t do anything because it thinks Birth Control wicked. Big Business doesn’t do anything, because it wants cheap Labour; the Governments don’t do anything because they want soldiers for the next war.

John: Who’s going to stop it? We’re all arming again as fast as we can go. Submarines and aeroplanes; blockade and starvation; bombs and poison gas from the air that’ll exterminate whole cities at a go! (He is speaking with[101] great emphasis.) D’you realise one of the leading scientists of the world has said that the millions of London could be blotted out in three hours! You may say that’s an exaggeration; it may be; but at the rate science is going it won’t be in a few years. “Easy and inexpensive”—that’s what a Cabinet Minister said about poison gas; and they’re all making it; as fast as they can go; and fleets of aeroplanes to drop it.

Gwen: Do you mean that the children I may have, or you may have, may be just wiped out in another war, more terrible than the last?

John: Why not? When nations are armed to the teeth, the arms go off, sooner or later. It always has been so; there’s no reason why it should be any different now; unless there was a change of spirit; and there’s no sign of that. Why should there be? The old ideas are still in power; all over the world; the very same men mostly; you see, they survive wars!

John: My dear, they laugh at us. And at anybody else who suggests they aren’t wisdom incarnate ... unless we ever became effective against them; then they’d find a way of downing us. You’ve only got to read the newspapers: speeches by generals, and admirals—and bishops; threatenings by politicians; in every country; the old financial interests at work under it all; and the great mass of the people, in every country, struggling all day just to exist, absolutely incapable of independent thought, and ready to believe what any newspaper tells them three days running.

Gwen: John! ... if it’s like that, what’s the good of anything! It doesn’t seem worth going on, or trying.

John: Oh yes, it’s worth it. If the smash comes the few ideals that are left will float upward, and have some influence on what comes next. Something’s got to come next!... Men could free themselves from war.

John: And from all the other forces that make them suffer so. They’re not natural forces; they’re forces men have made.

John: There’s no will to do it, and that’s because there’s no understanding.... I often think, now, of being in the trenches.

John: No. The strangers on the road, day and night, at the same task; one’s rest and play only to give one strength for it; a purpose that gave meaning to every moment.

John: For five years the men under forty worked together, sacrificed everything they had in life, every hope, prospect, comfort; they underwent suffering, physical suffering and moral suffering, absolutely inconceivable to those who stayed at home, so that to give their lives at the end of it was often a relief ... and they won! By God, Gwen, if the men over forty with the money and the power would get together and work one-twentieth as well, and sacrifice one-hundredth of their personal comfort, what mightn’t they make of the victory—but they won’t! They won’t, because they see no reason why they should. They’ve got no faith to make them. They’ve got nothing great to believe in.... To-day, the wisest of men are cynical, and the cleverest are rich, and none are happy.... There’s no great purpose outside our own lives to give them harmony and meaning. Ask the ordinary people, in the streets, and tubes, and ’buses ... what they’re living for; they don’t know.... All the old duties—our duty to our parents; to our country; to God; they’ve been prostituted; they demanded our blood; and took it; and gave us nothing in return but a dreadful sense of futility ... we’ve got to find something truer to believe in....

John: ... Why not, just ... our duty to our fellows.... Suppose we all started in with that as a Religion; with half the will we went to war; a common purpose so deeply felt that everybody was ready to spend their lives for it, and make any sacrifices that were called[104] for; I’d be a parson if that was religion, teaching that common purpose—just to clear up the mess a bit; so that the generation that’s waiting just outside the doors of existence, should come in and find it a happier place; it ’ud be a dam’ sight happier place for those in it now, anyhow! and we’d soon do away with any fear of another war; that ’ud be something.

John: What other hope is there? There are millions and millions waiting to be born; they haven’t got all the prejudices and hatreds that cause the trouble; they get ’em from us; we’ve got to give ’em something better.

John: If we don’t, they’ll go through all the hell that we’ve been through, probably a worse hell than anything we’ve known yet—in this country, anyhow—and then their children, and their children’s children, will try again.

John: I’ve got a few hundred pounds in the bank; and I’m selling my piano, and everything else I can. I’m going to write; and think and read; and get into touch with any others I can, who feel as we do.

John: I want to try and write something for the ordinary sort of person, who’s just lost and discontented. There are some.

John: That might be my job; it’s not much; when one talks of doing, what can one do, oneself, seems so inadequate. But it would have been a poor excuse before a tribunal: “I’m not going to join up.” “Why?” “I don’t see myself winning the war single-handed” ... plenty only stopped a bullet going into something else. I may only encourage somebody else to do something.

John: There’s one way all our lot can help: it’s probably the best way, too.

John: To live by what you believe, which is difficult ... and not by what you don’t believe, which is easy.

John: If you can, you’re a fanatic! But I believe you’ve got to have something of a fanatic in you to do[106] anything worth while these days. The thing is to keep one’s fanaticism, and to keep one’s humanity.

John: I think so; tremendously; I think, if this generation misses its opportunity, which it may, it’s because we’ve lost the old beliefs and haven’t taken the trouble to get a new one for ourselves.

Gwen: Yes. Oh, there are such heaps of people “lost and discontented”; I know such heaps of girls like that. They just don’t know where they are; they make an awful mess of things sometimes.

John: You do, if you don’t know where you are. You know, if we’re not careful, there’ll be a period of aimless licence, and then reaction. It’s a critical time all right. A puritan reaction; and all the old inhibitions and denials and secrecies clamped down on our children again.

Gwen: It makes everything seem unimportant except doing one’s bit; doesn’t it?

Gwen: It’s funny that just when I’m beginning to feel like that, there is something in my life that’s important.

John: You’ll get a clump on the head in a minute, if you keep on asking me not to laugh ... what is it?

John: ’Tisn’t obvious a bit; up to a second ago I hadn’t a notion; but you’ve seen a good deal of him these last two weeks, haven’t you?

Gwen: He’s taken me out nearly every day; theatres and dinners; I’ve never had such a time.

Gwen: I don’t think so; I don’t think he cares a bit more for me than for all the others he takes about. I’m a fool! I dread every time I see him in case I should find out it’s no good; but every time he goes away, life’s just waiting for the next time I see him!

John: I don’t make it in this house; I don’t know where the things are kept.

Colin: Then go out into the street, and go up to the first person you meet, and ask them to teach you to take a hint.

John: Sorry! It’s raining! I’ll be upstairs. Give me a blow when I can come down.

Colin (throwing away his cigarette, he starts again with the same suddenness of tone): Gwen!... What would you say if I asked you to marry me?

Gwen: No I don’t. I don’t want anything to be different. Oh, Colin, you’ve taken such a load off my mind!...

Colin: Oh, my dear!—it’s difficult to talk sense. Let’s try. I don’t want to wait. Do you?

Colin: Oh don’t let’s have any more of that rot! (And, because his nerves are on edge, he makes it sound more explosive than he meant. Realising, he adds, mitigatingly:) I mean, it may be all right when you’re not serious, but when you are, it’s no good.

Colin: Yes! pray God, yes! Look here, I love you. Please understand that. Quite certainly. With everything in me, for always.

Colin: I’ve been very lonely; with everything I wanted—unhappy. You’ve changed all that. I want everything now, for you.

Colin: It’s a fact. But I know what I want; d’you see? ... that’s going to give me the power to get it—for both of us. All this experimenting business. It’s no good. I’ve finished with it!

Colin: Now, look here, Gwen; people who shilly-shally round and get someone in their lives, and then look round and wonder whether someone else wouldn’t give them a fuller life! I’ve no use for it. I know a good deal about life.

Colin: You know that. I don’t want to pretend. Not an abnormal amount! Nothing out of the ordinary, but because this isn’t new to me, I haven’t a doubt. This thing’s permanent. I know.

Gwen (with a little cry): Oh, why did you say that? You know I want them, too; but not yet.

Colin: My dear love; if you want to see life, or the world, a bit first—of course—there’s nowhere you can’t go; nothing you can’t have for the asking; I’m going to give the rest of my life to give you everything you want.

Gwen: I believe with all my soul to marry you now, straight off, would be a wrong thing to do. (She is passionately sincere.) Really! Really! I don’t believe it would be right! If I did, it would only be to save bother. I want to do what’s right. Oh, I can’t talk; I can’t say what I mean; I feel it; it isn’t only myself ... it’s the others.

Gwen: Yes; we’re supposed to; it isn’t easy to hold out; some girls are; I want to be on their side; I want to keep hold of my part in the future; if I give in right at the beginning, how can I ever take any part, or interest ever again, without being ashamed ... if that’s a “stunt”; if it’s all “rot” to you ... it’s no good; you’d better go!

Gwen: Yes; I love you; make no mistake about that. I don’t know what I shall do, if you go.... I love you so much, I don’t want our first love to be spoiled by feeling I’m doing wrong.

Gwen: I can’t help it.... Oh, Colin, please, don’t you see ... if you’re certain, it’ll make no difference in the end.

Colin: Suppose I’m obstinate too; and just as conscientious; and I don’t want it to be spoiled, and I think we ought to get married.

Gwen: Colin! ... if I gave in, I shouldn’t be any good to you; something in me would die.

Mr. Freeman: He’s got no business to go out. I want to speak to him. I told him I wanted to speak to him.

Mr. Freeman (taking it from her): Here, give it to me. (He listens.) ... Has he “popped” what? No. It’s me speaking. Me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come down. At once. (He replaces the instrument.) ... What the devil did he mean?... Going off his chump! That’s what’s the matter with him. Off their chumps! That’s what’s the matter with the whole family.

Mr. Freeman (jumping at this): I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stay. I’ve got some particular business to discuss with my son.

Colin: Oh, of course. (He hesitates awkwardly a moment, and then says, low, to Gwen:) Will you come and have dinner to-night?

Mr. Freeman: That’s enough!... You’ve been out with Mr. Mackenzie six times this week. I’m sure Mr. Mackenzie’s man-of-the-world enough to realise that’s unusual.

Come in. I’ve just had to put my foot down. I’ve forbidden your sister to go out with Mr. Mackenzie.

Mr. Freeman: Yes. Forbidden! If I don’t take a strong line, goodness knows where we shall get to. You young people think you can play highty-tighty just as you please.... As I say, I’ve no wish to be offensive[117] to Mr. Mackenzie. It’s very good of him to spend so much time on her.... Every now and again. Yes. Of course. But six times a week! The thing becomes ridiculous. (To Colin.) I hope you understand my position.

Colin: I think perhaps you don’t quite understand my position. I have asked your daughter to marry me.

Mr. Freeman: Well, of course, this does rather alter the aspect of things.... I don’t know what to say; ’pon my word, you’ve rather taken the wind out of my sails ... of course, it’s all got to be considered. I shall want to talk to you ... then, if I approve, and her mother ... the whole thing wants talking over.

Gwen (she is very pale, and her teeth are set): You needn’t talk it over, thank you. I’ve made up my mind.

Gwen: Yes. I’ve told him I won’t marry him yet. But I’ve told him I’ll go away with him; and we can get married later; when I know what I’m doing; if we want to.

Gwen: What I said: I told him I’d go away with him. I’ll marry him afterwards when I’m sure.

Mr. Freeman (turning fiercely on him): Good!!! What the devil do you mean—good?!!! Really, I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels! (To Colin.) What have you got to do with this?

Mr. Freeman: I suppose I can believe my ears. You heard what she said ... she’s already made this outrageous suggestion to you.

Colin: I’m not quite certain how a gentleman would behave under the circumstances.

Colin: Yes. Supposing when you were single, the girl you loved, out of a sort of access of social duty, had proposed a sort of trial trip before you were——

Mr. Freeman: Social fiddle-sticks! When I was a young man the thing was unthinkable.

Colin: I don’t want to argue either; but I think you might answer my question. What would you do in my place?

Mr. Freeman: Stop that noise! Is your sister’s shame a laughing matter to you?

Mr. Freeman: Yes; that’s what I said—shame. It’s time there was a little plain-speaking in this house!! I don’t know what’s come over you; both of you. You think you can treat us just as you like; push us on one side; me, and your mother, and the family; the traditions; trample on everything we hold sacred. You can’t.

You think you can break faith just as you will: you can’t; you throw over the girl you’ve been engaged to since you were children; and the same with the business; and never a word ’till this afternoon ... and now this ... this cruel, insane, folly of Gwen’s. A cruel,[120] thoughtless, insane wickedness that I never thought I should find in a child of mine. Have you no thought for others—either of you? No consideration? (To John.) You’re lazy; that’s what’s the matter with you. No aim in life. No desire to get on. Dog lazy. And you. (He turns on his daughter.) You’re worse. Are you mad? or are you wanton? You seem to have no thought but for your own pleasure——

John: Yes. I have lost it. I’ve lost it now!! How dare you talk like that? How dare you?!?!

John (refusing to be stopped): It’s no good. It’s got to come out now. You, who sat at home here in comfort all those five years of hell.

John: You don’t know what I’m talking about! You’ve forgotten. I’ll tell you. (He is possessed by an overwhelming rage.) Your generation has done ours in! Smashed it! Millions! If we were to stand at that window and they marched past us, they’d march all day, and all night, and all day again—for days and nights. Dead men. Dead. For what? They died to end war; to make a better world; and before their corpses have rotted into earth, new wars are preparing and the world’s a dam’ sight worse—and you? Is there one word of apology in you?[121] One word of humility? No. The same old pride; and blindness; and intolerance. Because I don’t want to live as you’ve lived, I’m lazy; because Gwen wants to live, not exactly as her mother and grandmother lived, she’s mad or wanton! Good God in Heaven! if there’s one way that’s been proved wrong it’s your way! If we live exactly as you lived, it’ll all happen over again!...

Sorry. I lost my temper. I’ve got it again now.... I was rude. I’m sorry.... We only ask that you should go your way: and leave us to find ours. I beg your pardon. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be friends.

Mr. Freeman (to Gwen): Do you suppose your mother will ever lift up her head again?

Gwen: What I believe is part of me, I can’t help that. I couldn’t be anything but a stranger with anyone[122] from whom I had to hide it. We could be closer now. If she will. I’ll do my best.

Mr. Freeman: Rubbish. (He makes for the door.) All I can say now is: I shall oppose you with every means in my power. If you persist, not another penny do you get from me—either of you. (To Colin.) And as for you, sir, you’re a damned scoundrel!

Colin (taking her roughly by the shoulders): Look here; you’re going to love me; and I’m going to love you, and there’s going to be no one else. Do you understand?

Colin: I’m going to Rome. As soon as I can get a passport. I think you can get a passport quicker than you can get a licence. Shall I get two—passports?

John: My man’s bought my piano and every other damned thing in the whole attic. So we’re in the soup, now, Gwen, both of us!

Gwen: Rosie!... I’d forgotten!... (With sudden misgiving.) John, this isn’t going to stop us.

Printed In Great Britain at
The Mayflower Press, Plymouth. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.

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