MR MARCH. It's rather a weight on my wife's, I'm afraid. But we must hope for the best. The country wants rain, but – I doubt if we shall get it with this Government.
BLY. Ah! We want the good old times-when you could depend on the seasons. The further you look back the more dependable the times get; 'ave you noticed that, sir?
MR MARCH. [Suddenly] Suppose they'd hanged your daughter, Mr Bly. What would you have done?
BLY. Well, to be quite frank, I should 'ave got drunk on it.
MR MARCH. Public opinion's always in advance of the Law. I think your daughter's a most pathetic little figure.
BLY. Her looks are against her. I never found a man that didn't.
MR MARCH. [A little disconcerted] Well, we'll try and give her a good show here.
BLY. [Taking up his pail] I'm greatly obliged; she'll appreciate anything you can do for her. [He moves to the door and pauses there to say] Fact is – her winders wants cleanin', she 'ad a dusty time in there.
MR MARCH. I'm sure she had.
MR BLY passes out, and MR MARCH busies himself in gathering up his writing things preparatory to seeking his study. While he is so engaged FAITH comes in. Glancing at him, she resumes her placing of the decanters, as JOHNNY enters by the window, and comes down to his father by the hearth.
JOHNNY. [Privately] If you haven't begun your morning, Dad, you might just tell me what you think of these verses.
He puts a sheet of notepaper before his father, who takes it and begins to con over the verses thereon, while JOHNNY looks carefully at his nails.
MR MARCH. Er – I – I like the last line awfully, Johnny.
JOHNNY. [Gloomily] What about the other eleven?
MR MARCH. [Tentatively] Well – old man, I – er – think perhaps it'd be stronger if they were out.
JOHNNY. Good God!
He takes back the sheet of paper, clutches his brow, and crosses to the door. As he passes FAITH, she looks up at him with eyes full of expression. JOHNNY catches the look, jibs ever so little, and goes out.
COOK'S VOICE. [Through the door, which is still ajar] Faith!
FAITH puts the decanters on the table, and goes quickly out.
MR MARCH. [Who has seen this little by-play – to himself – in a voice of dismay] Oh! oh! I wonder!
CURTAIN.
ACT II
A fortnight later in the MARCH'S dining-room; a day of violent April showers. Lunch is over and the table littered with, remains – twelve baskets full. MR MARCH and MARY have lingered. MR MARCH is standing by the hearth where a fire is burning, filling a fountain pen. MARY sits at the table opposite, pecking at a walnut.
MR MARCH. [Examining his fingers] What it is to have an inky present! Suffer with me, Mary!
MARY. "Weep ye no more, sad Fountains! Why need ye flow so fast?"
MR MARCH. [Pocketing his pen] Coming with me to the British Museum? I want to have a look at the Assyrian reliefs.
MARY. Dad, have you noticed Johnny?
MR MARCH. I have.
MARY. Then only Mother hasn't.
MR MARCH. I've always found your mother extremely good at seeming not to notice things, Mary.
MARY. Faith! She's got on very fast this fortnight.
MR MARCH. The glad eye, Mary. I got it that first morning.
MARY. You, Dad?
MR MARCH. No, no! Johnny got it, and I got him getting it.
MARY. What are you going to do about it?
MR MARCH. What does one do with a glad eye that belongs to some one else?
MARY. [Laughing] No. But, seriously, Dad, Johnny's not like you and me. Why not speak to Mr Bly?
MR MARCH. Mr Bly's eyes are not glad.
MARY. Dad! Do be serious! Johnny's capable of anything except a sense of humour.
MR MARCH. The girl's past makes it impossible to say anything to her.
MARY. Well, I warn you. Johnny's very queer just now; he's in the "lose the world to save your soul" mood. It really is too bad of that girl. After all, we did what most people wouldn't.
MR MARCH. Come! Get your hat on, Mary, or we shan't make the Tube before the next shower.
MARY. [Going to the door] Something must be done.
MR MARCH. As you say, something – Ah! Mr Bly!
MR BLY, in precisely the same case as a fortnight ago, with his pail and cloths, is coming in.
BLY. Afternoon, sir! Shall I be disturbing you if I do the winders here?
MR MARCH. Not at all.
MR BLY crosses to the windows.
MARY. [Pointing to MR BLY's back] Try!
BLY. Showery, sir.
MR MARCH. Ah!
BLY. Very tryin' for winders. [Resting] My daughter givin' satisfaction, I hope?
MR MARCH. [With difficulty] Er – in her work, I believe, coming on well. But the question is, Mr Bly, do – er – any of us ever really give satisfaction except to ourselves?
BLY. [Taking it as an invitation to his philosophical vein] Ah! that's one as goes to the roots of 'uman nature. There's a lot of disposition in all of us. And what I always say is: One man's disposition is another man's indisposition.
MR MARCH. By George! Just hits the mark.
BLY. [Filling his sponge] Question is: How far are you to give rein to your disposition? When I was in Durban, Natal, I knew a man who had the biggest disposition I ever come across. 'E struck 'is wife, 'e smoked opium, 'e was a liar, 'e gave all the rein 'e could, and yet withal one of the pleasantest men I ever met.
MR MARCH. Perhaps in giving rein he didn't strike you.
BLY. [With a big wipe, following his thought] He said to me once: "Joe," he said, "if I was to hold meself in, I should be a devil." There's where you get it. Policemen, priests, prisoners. Cab'net Ministers, any one who leads an unnatural life, see how it twists 'em. You can't suppress a thing without it swellin' you up in another place.
MR MARCH. And the moral of that is – ?
BLY. Follow your instincts. You see – if I'm not keepin' you – now that we ain't got no faith, as we were sayin' the other day, no Ten Commandments in black an' white – we've just got to be 'uman bein's – raisin' Cain, and havin' feelin' hearts. What's the use of all these lofty ideas that you can't live up to? Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, Democracy – see what comes o' fightin' for 'em! 'Ere we are-wipin' out the lot. We thought they was fixed stars; they was only comets – hot air. No; trust 'uman nature, I say, and follow your instincts.
MR MARCH. We were talking of your daughter – I – I —
BLY. There's a case in point. Her instincts was starved goin' on for three years, because, mind you, they kept her hangin' about in prison months before they tried her. I read your article, and I thought to meself after I'd finished: Which would I feel smallest – if I was – the Judge, the Jury, or the 'Ome Secretary? It was a treat, that article! They ought to abolish that in'uman "To be hanged by the neck until she is dead." It's my belief they only keep it because it's poetry; that and the wigs – they're hard up for a bit of beauty in the Courts of Law. Excuse my 'and, sir; I do thank you for that article.
He extends his wiped hand, which MR MARCH shakes with the feeling that he is always shaking Mr. BLY's hand.
MR MARCH. But, apropos of your daughter, Mr Bly. I suppose none of us ever change our natures.
BLY. [Again responding to the appeal that he senses to his philosophical vein] Ah! but 'oo can see what our natures are? Why, I've known people that could see nothin' but theirselves and their own families, unless they was drunk. At my daughter's trial, I see right into the lawyers, judge and all. There she was, hub of the whole thing, and all they could see of her was 'ow far she affected 'em personally – one tryin' to get 'er guilty, the other tryin' to get 'er off, and the judge summin' 'er up cold-blooded.
MR MARCH. But that's what they're paid for, Mr Bly.
BLY. Ah! But which of 'em was thinkin' "'Ere's a little bit o' warm life on its own. 'Ere's a little dancin' creature. What's she feelin', wot's 'er complaint?" – impersonal-like. I like to see a man do a bit of speculatin', with his mind off of 'imself, for once.
MR MARCH. "The man that hath not speculation in his soul."
BLY. That's right, sir. When I see a mangy cat or a dog that's lost, or a fellow-creature down on his luck, I always try to put meself in his place. It's a weakness I've got.
MR MARCH. [Warmly] A deuced good one. Shake —
He checks himself, but MR BLY has wiped his hand and extended it. While the shake is in progress MARY returns, and, having seen it to a safe conclusion, speaks.
MARY. Coming, Dad?
MR MARCH. Excuse me, Mr Bly, I must away.
He goes towards the door, and BLY dips his sponge.
MARY. [In a low voice] Well?
MR MARCH. Mr Bly is like all the greater men I know – he can't listen.
MARY. But you were shaking —
MR MARCH. Yes; it's a weakness we have – every three minutes.
MARY. [Bubbling] Dad – Silly!
MR MARCH. Very!
As they go out MR BLY pauses in his labours to catch, as it were, a philosophical reflection. He resumes the wiping of a pane, while quietly, behind him, FAITH comes in with a tray. She is dressed now in lilac-coloured linen, without a cap, and looks prettier than ever. She puts the tray down on the sideboard with a clap that attracts her father's attention, and stands contemplating the debris on the table.
BLY. Winders! There they are! Clean, dirty! All sorts – All round yer! Winders!
FAITH. [With disgust] Food!
BLY. Ah! Food and winders! That's life!
FAITH. Eight times a day four times for them and four times for us. I hate food!
She puts a chocolate into her mouth.
BLY. 'Ave some philosophy. I might just as well hate me winders.
FAITH. Well!
She begins to clear.
BLY. [Regarding her] Look 'ere, my girl! Don't you forget that there ain't many winders in London out o' which they look as philosophical as these here. Beggars can't be choosers.
FAITH. [Sullenly] Oh! Don't go on at me!
BLY. They spoiled your disposition in that place, I'm afraid.
FAITH. Try it, and see what they do with yours.
BLY. Well, I may come to it yet.
FAITH. You'll get no windows to look out of there; a little bit of a thing with bars to it, and lucky if it's not thick glass. [Standing still and gazing past MR BLY] No sun, no trees, no faces – people don't pass in the sky, not even angels.
BLY. Ah! But you shouldn't brood over it. I knew a man in Valpiraso that 'ad spent 'arf 'is life in prison-a jolly feller; I forget what 'e'd done, somethin' bloody. I want to see you like him. Aren't you happy here?
FAITH. It's right enough, so long as I get out.
BLY. This Mr March – he's like all these novel-writers – thinks 'e knows 'uman nature, but of course 'e don't. Still, I can talk to 'im – got an open mind, and hates the Gover'ment. That's the two great things. Mrs March, so far as I see, 'as got her head screwed on much tighter.
FAITH. She has.
BLY. What's the young man like? He's a long feller.
FAITH. Johnny? [With a shrug and a little smile] Johnny.
BLY. Well, that gives a very good idea of him. They say 'es a poet; does 'e leave 'em about?
FAITH. I've seen one or two.
BLY. What's their tone?
FAITH. All about the condition of the world; and the moon.
BLY. Ah! Depressin'. And the young lady?
FAITH shrugs her shoulders.
Um – 'ts what I thought. She 'asn't moved much with the times. She thinks she 'as, but she 'asn't. Well, they seem a pleasant family. Leave you to yourself. 'Ow's Cook?
FAITH. Not much company.
BLY. More body than mind? Still, you get out, don't you?
FAITH. [With a slow smile] Yes. [She gives a sudden little twirl, and puts her hands up to her hair before the mirror] My afternoon to-day. It's fine in the streets, after-being in there.
BLY. Well! Don't follow your instincts too much, that's all! I must get on to the drawin' room now. There's a shower comin'. [Philosophically] It's 'ardly worth while to do these winders. You clean 'em, and they're dirty again in no time. It's like life. And people talk o' progress. What a sooperstition! Of course there ain't progress; it's a world-without-end affair. You've got to make up your mind to it, and not be discouraged. All this depression comes from 'avin' 'igh 'opes. 'Ave low 'opes, and you'll be all right.
He takes up his pail and cloths and moves out through the windows.
FAITH puts another chocolate into her mouth, and taking up a flower, twirls round with it held to her nose, and looks at herself in the glass over the hearth. She is still looking at herself when she sees in the mirror a reflection of JOHNNY, who has come in. Her face grows just a little scared, as if she had caught the eye of a warder peering through the peep-hole of her cell door, then brazens, and slowly sweetens as she turns round to him.
JOHNNY. Sorry! [He has a pipe in his hand and wears a Norfolk jacket] Fond of flowers?
FAITH. Yes. [She puts back the flower] Ever so!
JOHNNY. Stick to it. Put it in your hair; it'll look jolly. How do you like it here?
FAITH. It's quiet.
JOHNNY. Ha! I wonder if you've got the feeling I have. We've both had hell, you know; I had three years of it, out there, and you've had three years of it here. The feeling that you can't catch up; can't live fast enough to get even.
FAITH nods.
Nothing's big enough; nothing's worth while enough – is it?
FAITH. I don't know. I know I'd like to bite. She draws her lips back.
JOHNNY. Ah! Tell me all about your beastly time; it'll do you good. You and I are different from anybody else in this house. We've lived they've just vegetated. Come on; tell me!
FAITH, who up to now has looked on him as a young male, stares at him for the first time without sex in her eyes.
FAITH. I can't. We didn't talk in there, you know.
JOHNNY. Were you fond of the chap who – ?
FAITH. No. Yes. I suppose I was – once.
JOHNNY. He must have been rather a swine.
FAITH. He's dead.
JOHNNY. Sorry! Oh, sorry!
FAITH. I've forgotten all that.
JOHNNY. Beastly things, babies; and absolutely unnecessary in the present state of the world.
FAITH. [With a faint smile] My baby wasn't beastly; but I – I got upset.
JOHNNY. Well, I should think so!
FAITH. My friend in the manicure came and told me about hers when I was lying in the hospital. She couldn't have it with her, so it got neglected and died.
JOHNNY. Um! I believe that's quite common.
FAITH. And she told me about another girl – the Law took her baby from her. And after she was gone, I – got all worked up – [She hesitates, then goes swiftly on] And I looked at mine; it was asleep just here, quite close. I just put out my arm like that, over its face – quite soft – I didn't hurt it. I didn't really. [She suddenly swallows, and her lips quiver] I didn't feel anything under my arm. And – and a beast of a nurse came on me, and said "You've smothered your baby, you wretched girl!"
I didn't want to kill it – I only wanted to save it from living. And when I looked at it, I went off screaming.
JOHNNY. I nearly screamed when I saved my first German from living. I never felt the same again. They say the human race has got to go on, but I say they've first got to prove that the human race wants to. Would you rather be alive or dead?
FAITH. Alive.
JOHNNY. But would you have in prison?
FAITH. I don't know. You can't tell anything in there. [With sudden vehemence] I wish I had my baby back, though. It was mine; and I – I don't like thinking about it.
JOHNNY. I know. I hate to think about anything I've killed, really. At least, I should – but it's better not to think.
FAITH. I could have killed that judge.
JOHNNY. Did he come the heavy father? That's what I can't stand. When they jaw a chap and hang him afterwards. Or was he one of the joking ones?
FAITH. I've sat in my cell and cried all night – night after night, I have. [With a little laugh] I cried all the softness out of me.
JOHNNY. You never believed they were going to hang you, did you?
FAITH. I didn't care if they did – not then.
JOHNNY. [With a reflective grunt] You had a much worse time than I. You were lonely —
FAITH. Have you been in a prison, ever?
JOHNNY. No, thank God!
FAITH. It's awfully clean.
JOHNNY. You bet.
FAITH. And it's stone cold. It turns your heart.
JOHNNY. Ah! Did you ever see a stalactite?
FAITH. What's that?
JOHNNY. In caves. The water drops like tears, and each drop has some sort of salt, and leaves it behind till there's just a long salt petrified drip hanging from the roof.
FAITH. Ah! [Staring at him] I used to stand behind my door. I'd stand there sometimes I don't know how long. I'd listen and listen – the noises are all hollow in a prison. You'd think you'd get used to being shut up, but I never did.
JOHNNY utters a deep grunt.
It's awful the feeling you get here-so tight and chokey. People who are free don't know what it's like to be shut up. If I'd had a proper window even – When you can see things living, it makes you feel alive.
JOHNNY. [Catching her arm] We'll make you feel alive again.
FAITH stares at him; sex comes back to her eyes. She looks down.
I bet you used to enjoy life, before.
FAITH. [Clasping her hands] Oh! yes, I did. And I love getting out now. I've got a fr – [She checks herself] The streets are beautiful, aren't they? Do you know Orleens Street?
JOHNNY. [Doubtful] No-o… Where?
FAITH. At the corner out of the Regent. That's where we had our shop. I liked the hair-dressing. We had fun. Perhaps I've seen you before. Did you ever come in there?
JOHNNY. No.
FAITH. I'd go back there; only they wouldn't take me – I'm too conspicuous now.
JOHNNY. I expect you're well out of that.
FAITH. [With a sigh] But I did like it. I felt free. We had an hour off in the middle of the day; you could go where you liked; and then, after hours – I love the streets at night – all lighted. Olga – that's one of the other girls – and I used to walk about for hours. That's life! Fancy! I never saw a street for more than two years. Didn't you miss them in the war?
JOHNNY. I missed grass and trees more – the trees! All burnt, and splintered. Gah!
FAITH. Yes, I like trees too; anything beautiful, you know. I think the parks are lovely – but they might let you pick the flowers. But the lights are best, really – they make you feel happy. And music – I love an organ. There was one used to come and play outside the prison – before I was tried. It sounded so far away and lovely. If I could 'ave met the man that played that organ, I'd have kissed him. D'you think he did it on purpose?
JOHNNY. He would have, if he'd been me.
He says it unconsciously, but FAITH is instantly conscious of the implication.
FAITH. He'd rather have had pennies, though. It's all earning; working and earning. I wish I were like the flowers. [She twirls the dower in her hand] Flowers don't work, and they don't get put in prison.