SCENE I
Morning, the next day. BARBARA in walking-out dress, WESSON in an old jacket.
BARBARA: What time did the man say Mama would be here?
WESSON: I understood she would come for you in a carriage at ten o’clock.
BARBARA: And did she really say you mustn’t come?
WESSON: She said she wished to drive alone with you.
BARBARA: Put your coat on and come, too.
WESSON: No — perhaps she wants to talk to you, and to have you to herself a bit. It’s natural. You needn’t do anything that you don’t want to do.
BARBARA: Why should she ask me for a drive without you? It’s like her impudence — I won’t go!
WESSON: Yes, you’d better.
BARBARA: You’d say I’d better do any miserable thing they liked to ask me.
WESSON: Alright.
BARBARA: Why don’t you say I oughtn’t to go for a drive with Mama without you?
WESSON: Because I don’t care — your mother can use all her persuasions and reasons till she’s sick of it.
BARBARA: But why should she?
WESSON: It’s probably the shortest way, if we stick to ourselves all through.
BARBARA: A fine lot of sticking to yourself you do, don’t you? Think of the shrivelling creature whom Mama scolded yesterday.
WESSON: I was true to myself, then — and to you.
BARBARA: Were you — were you! Then I’ll have another kind of fidelity, thank you.
WESSON: You won’t. And now you’d better go.
BARBARA: Go!
WESSON: For your drive. You’ll find Lady Charlcote before you get to the Piazza.
BARBARA: And if I don’t choose to?
WESSON (shrugging): You’ll please yourself.
BARBARA: Tra — la-la — la!
WESSON: I wish you’d go.
BARBARA: Why do you wish I’d go? I will, then.
Exit — the door is heard to bang. WESSON watches her.
WESSON: There goes the carriage, and the old lady. I should like to murder the twopence-ha’penny lot of them, with their grizzling and whining and chuffing. If they’d leave us alone we should be alright — damn them! Miserable bits of shouters! My mother was worth a million of ‘em, for they’ve none of ’em the backbone of a flea — She doesn’t want to stick to me — she doesn’t want to love me — she won’t let herself love me. She wants to save some rotten rag of independence — she’s afraid to let herself go and to belong to me.
He goes to the sideboard, drinks wine, looks at a book, throws it down, plays a dozen chords on the piano, gets up, drinks more wine, sits down to write, and remains perfectly still, as if transfixed — all the time he has moved quietly — the door-bell rings — he does not hear — it rings louder — he starts up and goes to the door — is heard saying, “How do you do? Will you come in?” Enter SIR WILLIAM CHARLCOTE — short, stout, a gentleman — grey bristling moustache.
WESSON: Will you sit down?
SIR WILLIAM (taking a seat near the door): Thank you.
WESSON (offering cigarettes in a threepenny packet): Excuse the packet.
SIR WILLIAM: Thank you, I have some of my own.
WESSON throws the packet on the table and sits on the couch.
WESSON: It’s a nice day.
SIR WILLIAM: Yes. (Clearing his throat.) I called to hear from yourself an account of what you intend to do.
WESSON (knitting his fingers): I intend to do nothing but what I am doing.
SIR WILLIAM: And what is that?
WESSON: Living here — working —
SIR WILLIAM: And keeping my daughter under the present conditions?
WESSON: Barbara stays as long as she will. I am here for her while she wants me.
SIR WILLIAM: But you have no right to be here for her to want.
WESSON: But I say, while ever she wants me, I am here for her.
SIR WILLIAM: Don’t you see that is cowardly and base.
WESSON: Is it the morality of it you want to discuss?
SIR WILLIAM: Yes — yes — it is the right of it. You may perhaps think I have no room to talk. That is like your damned impudence.
WESSON: But that’s not the point.
SIR WILLIAM: A man has a right to any woman whom he can get, so long as she’s not a married woman. Go with all the unmarried women you like. But touch a married woman, and you are a scoundrel.
WESSON: So!
SIR WILLIAM: It destroys the whole family system, and strikes at the whole of society. A man who does it is as much a criminal as a thief, a burglar, or even a murderer. You see my point?
WESSON: Your point of view.
SIR WILLIAM: You see so much. Then you see what you are doing: a criminal act against the State, against the rights of man altogether, against Dr Tressider, and against my daughter.
WESSON: So!
SIR WILLIAM: And seeing that, only an — only a criminal by conviction can continue in what he is doing — a fellow who deserves to be locked up.
WESSON: If life went according to deserts.
SIR WILLIAM: If you intend to behave in the least like a man, you will clear out of this place —
WESSON: I’ve got the house on a six months’ lease.
SIR WILLIAM: I will pay the lease.
WESSON: It is paid — but I like the place, and prefer to stay.
SIR WILLIAM: That is, you will continue to keep my daughter in — in — in this shame and scandal —
WESSON: She chooses to stay.
SIR WILLIAM: If plain reasoning will not convince you, we must try other methods.
WESSON: Very well.
SIR WILLIAM: You — whom I thought to be doing a service by asking you to my house —
The bell rings.
WESSON (rising): Excuse me a moment.
Exit — voices — enter BARBARA, followed by LADY CHARLCOTE and WESSON.
BARBARA: Papa!
SIR WILLIAM: I came to speak with this man.
BARBARA: But why behind my back?
SIR WILLIAM: I will come when I like. I will not have women, and especially women like you, about me when I have anything to say.
BARBARA: Nor more will I have men like you interfering with my affairs behind my back, Papa!
LADY CHARLCOTE: For shame, Barbara.
BARBARA (turning, flashing): What right has he to come bullying Wesson behind my back. I came away with him — it was I who suggested he should come to Italy with me when I was coming to see Laura. So when you have anything to say, Papa, say it to me — if you dare.
SIR WILLIAM: Dare! Dare!
BARBARA: Whom are you talking to, Papa — and you of all people! I did not love Frederick, and I won’t live with him — so there — and you may go.
SIR WILLIAM (picking up his hat): I never want to see you again.
LADY CHARLCOTE: Barbara, you should respect your father.
BARBARA: Mama — you — you — then let him respect me, and the man I live with.
Exit SIR WILLIAM.
LADY CHARLCOTE: What has he said?
WESSON: It does not matter.
LADY CHARLCOTE: Well — now you must make the best of your own affairs — for you’ve cut off all your own people from you, Barbara.
BARBARA: I have not cut myself off — it’s you who have left me in the lurch. I was miserable with Frederick. I felt I couldn’t stand it. You would have helped me to have had lovers, Mama. But because I come away decently and openly you all turn on me.
LADY CHARLCOTE: You know it is impossible —
BARBARA: Very well, I will be impossible!
LADY CHARLCOTE: I shall never leave you in the lurch. (Crying.) You are my daughter, whatever happens.
Exit — WESSON hurries to the door after her — it is heard to close — he returns.
BARBARA: Why do you let them trample on you? Why do you play the poor worm? It drives me mad!
WESSON: But you don’t want me to insult your father.
BARBARA: But why do you let yourself be bullied and treated like dirt?
WESSON: I don’t.
BARBARA: You do — you do — and I hate you for it.
WESSON: Very well. (She sits down on the couch, twisting her handkerchief. He seats himself beside her and takes her hand.) Never mind, they’ll get over it.
BARBARA: Papa won’t — and I have loved him so.
WESSON: He will.
BARBARA: He won’t! Oh, but I hate him — a mean funker! But he always was a funker. He had his Selma on the sly, and when Mama found him out — it positively broke him. What did he say to you?
WESSON: He explained his point of view, which seems to me perfectly logical.
BARBARA: And I suppose you agreed with him?
WESSON: No; I didn’t agree with him — only I understood.
BARBARA: And you cringed to him, I know you did.
WESSON: I don’t think so.
BARBARA: And now they’ve left me.
WESSON: Never mind — they can slam at us, but we can stand it.
BARBARA: But it’s so horrible — and I have to fight for you, as if you weren’t a man.
WESSON: I don’t think you have any need.
BARBARA: Yes, but I have — and all the burden falls on me — you don’t take your share.
WESSON: Surely I do! Never mind, I know it’s horrid for you. But you will stick to me, won’t you?
BARBARA: I didn’t think it would be so hard — I have to fight you, and them, and everybody. Not a soul in the world gives me the tiniest bit of help.
WESSON: That’s only because you feel rotten. I love you, Barbara.
BARBARA: Doesn’t it make you hate me, all this horridness?
WESSON: Why should it? I don’t care what comes, so that we get a little closer.
BARBARA: But it’s worth it, isn’t it, Giacomo? — say I’m worth it.
WESSON (putting his arms round her and kissing her): You’re the only thing in life and in the world that I’ve got — you are.
BARBARA: Are you sure?
WESSON: I’ve got my work, which isn’t life. Then there’s nothing else but you — not a thing — and if you leave me — well, I’ve done.
BARBARA: How do you mean, done?
WESSON: Only my effort at life. I shall feel as if I had made my big effort — put all my money down — and lost. The only thing remaining would be to go on and make the best of it.
BARBARA: I suppose that’s how Frederick feels.
WESSON: I suppose it is — if only he would get a grip on and try to make the best of it.
BARBARA: But it’s not so easy.
WESSON: No, it isn’t, poor devil. But if he’s got to do it, he may as well.
BARBARA: Oh, do you love me enough, Giacomo?
WESSON: I love you enough for whatever you want me for.
BARBARA: Sure?
WESSON: Sure! The question is, do you love me enough?
BARBARA: I love you better than you love me.
WESSON: Take your hat off, I can’t kiss you.
BARBARA (obediently removing her hat): Mama told me Papa was coming — I was furious, it seemed such a mean dodge. They are mean, though, and sordid. Did he say horrid things to you?
WESSON: He said he’d thrash me.
BARBARA (laughing): Fancy little Papa!
WESSON: Are you miserable? Are you sorry you’re done out of your drive?
BARBARA: No, I’m thankful to be back with you. If only they left us in peace, we could be so happy.
WESSON: They seem to grudge it us, don’t they?
BARBARA: Yes! And Mama says perhaps Frederick’s coming.
WESSON: At any rate we s’ll have had ’em all, then.
BARBARA: But I couldn’t bear to see him, Giacomo!
WESSON: Then don’t see him.
BARBARA: But he might do something mad.
WESSON: Let him.
BARBARA: No — I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.
WESSON: Why should anything happen to him?
BARBARA: And what would he do if he saw me? Would he go quite mad?
WESSON: You’re not such a magical person as all that.
BARBARA: But you don’t know him.
WESSON: Quite sufficiently.
BARBARA: Isn’t it funny — when I was first engaged to him, and was reading Othello, I thought what a good Othello he’d make, better than the real one.
WESSON: You feel sure he’ll slay you, poor Desdemona.
BARBARA (laughing): Yes — he’s so Othelloish.
WESSON: And you so Desdemoniacal, aren’t you?
BARBARA (laughing): What does that mean?
WESSON: It means you sit sighing by a sycamore tree, you poor soul.
BARBARA (kissing him): O, I love you!
WESSON: Do you?
CURTAIN
SCENE II
Evening of the same day, WESSON sits alone, writing. Enter BARBARA, resplendent in an evening dress, with ornament in her hair. She stands in the doorway, looking across at herself in a mirror.
BARBARA: You’ve never seen me in this before. (He looks up — puts his pen between his teeth — she preens herself.)
WESSON (after a moment): I hate it.
BARBARA (hurt): But why? — I look nice. Don’t I look nice?
WESSON: I hate it — I hate it — you belong to those others in it.
BARBARA: But how nasty of you, Giacometti! It’s only the dress — the woman is just the same.
WESSON: She’s not. She’s according to her frock, which is Frederick’s. You put it on for Frederick, not for me.
BARBARA: I didn’t. I want you to see how grand I can look. Don’t you really think I look nice?
WESSON: No — I’d rather see you in your kitchen pinafore.
BARBARA: See how you want to drag me down. But you’ve got an evening suit. (Laughing): Does it really hurt you? (Sits down and begins to play a dance on the piano — it is the “Blue Danube” — she breaks off.) It’s the dearest dress I ever had.
WESSON: Take it off, Barbara.
BARBARA (slowing down — she is very quiet): Yes.
Rises — exit slowly. He sits chewing his pen — in a moment she rushes back, lays her hands on his shoulder.
BARBARA: There’s Frederick!
WESSON: Rubbish! — Where?
BARBARA: At the gate — with Mama — I saw them from the bedroom window.
LADY CHARLCOTE’S voice is heard calling “Barbara!”
BARBARA: Quick! I’ll call to them from the window I’m coming — I will — (Moves to the window.)
WESSON: What’s the good? Let them go away again.
BARBARA: I’ll call now —
WESSON: Damn!
He moves grudgingly to the door.
BARBARA stands with her hands clasped over her bare breast, terrified — listening. The gate is heard to bang open — voices — enter FREDERICK, alone — a haggard, handsome man of forty, brown moustache, dark brown eyes, greying at the temples. He hesitates at the door.
FREDERICK (ironically): May I come in?
BARBARA (frightened): What do you want?
FREDERICK: Merely permission to speak to you.
BARBARA: You know you may speak to me.
They hesitate — enter WESSON, followed by LADY CHARLCOTE.
WESSON: Barbara, do you want me to go with Lady Charlcote to the Hotel Cervo for half an hour?
BARBARA: I don’t know. (Sinks on to the couch.)
WESSON: You must tell me to go.
DR TRESSIDER looks at him sideways and shows his teeth, but does not speak — BARBARA watches the two men in terror.
BARBARA: Perhaps you’d better go — Mama can stay with me.
LADY CHARLCOTE: I think Frederick has the right to speak to you alone, Barbara.
BARBARA (almost whispering): But why — ?
FREDERICK: Are you afraid that I may abduct you?
LADY CHARLCOTE: No, Frederick, I don’t think it is fair to leave her alone with you.
FREDERICK (nastily): Don’t you? Perhaps it isn’t safe —
LADY CHARLCOTE: You might not be responsible for what you did.
FREDERICK: So the only place for me is the lunatic asylum.
BARBARA: If you are like that, Frederick, I don’t know what you can want to speak to me at all for.
FREDERICK: It is a question for surprise.
BARBARA: I’d much rather you did treat me as dirt, and left me alone.
WESSON: Will you sit down, Lady Charlcote?
FREDERICK (to WESSON): Will you please take yourself away, while I speak to my wife?
BARBARA: Yes, go, Wesson.
LADY CHARLCOTE: I would go for a few minutes, Mr Wesson. It can’t do you any harm. Things will settle themselves then.
WESSON (to BARBARA): Must I?
BARBARA: Only to the — to one of the other rooms.
WESSON: I’ll go to the bedroom, then.
Exit sullenly.
FREDERICK (taking a seat): I’m glad you look so well, Barbara.
LADY CHARLCOTE: You won’t do any good that way, Frederick.
FREDERICK (turning slowly to her): Perhaps you’ll tell me what to say!
LADY CHARLCOTE: You needn’t behave like a fool, at any rate.
BARBARA: I’m afraid you’ve been ill, Frederick.
FREDERICK: Yes — I am ill! I am glad to see you are so well.
BARBARA: Don’t, Frederick — what is the good of this — what is the good of it? Let us make the best we can now —
FREDERICK: Exactly!
BARBARA: Then the only sane thing would be to say what you came to say and let us get it over.
FREDERICK: I came for your instructions, of course.
BARBARA: It seems rather stupid, don’t you think?
FREDERICK: I’ve no doubt I always was stupid — a trusting fool —
BARBARA: You know it wasn’t like that. Do you really wish to speak to me?
FREDERICK: Yes, I think I can honestly say I do. It, no doubt, surprises you.
BARBARA: Then for God’s sake don’t torture me any longer.
FREDERICK: It would be a pity! But what I have to say I have to say to my wife, not to the world at large, or even to my mother-in-law, or your paramour.
BARBARA: Perhaps you had better leave us alone, Mama.
FREDERICK: Hadn’t you better consider again, Barbara? Wouldn’t that be giving me too much encouragement? I might take a liberty. I might even ask you to gallivant with me, like a seductive footman, or dustman. (There is silence.)
LADY CHARLCOTE: I can go into another room. (Making signs to BARBARA.) Where can I go, Barbara?
BARBARA rises — they go out together — FREDERICK looks round — gnaws the ends of his moustache. Re-enter BARBARA — she leaves the door open — he glances, sees it, but makes no remark.
BARBARA (taking her former seat): Mama is in my bedroom.
FREDERICK: Anything to say to me?
BARBARA: Don’t be horrid with me, Frederick. I know I deserve it —
FREDERICK: I’ll try not to be. (He sits devouring her with his eyes.)You’re in full-dress to-night, madam! Was it a great occasion?
BARBARA: No — I put it on — it’s the first time.
FREDERICK: You look the thing in it. I turned up to see you on your mettle, by good luck.
BARBARA: Don’t.
FREDERICK: Beautiful good luck. War-paint, I suppose!
BARBARA: You told me once you’d never be hard on a woman.
FREDERICK: I’m sorry if I’m hard on you — that would be unjust!
BARBARA: Don’t talk like that — Frederick.
FREDERICK: What shall we talk about — you or me?
BARBARA: Tell me about yourself —
FREDERICK: Ha! — how I suffered, you mean?
BARBARA: I know it’s been awful for you.
FREDERICK: Do you really — I shouldn’t have thought it.
BARBARA: Oh, but I do! It’s nearly driven me cracked sometimes.
FREDERICK: Ha! It was kind of you.
BARBARA (going forward impulsively and putting her hand on his knee): Don’t —
FREDERICK: I won’t — but tell me what — I must —
BARBARA: Don’t be like this — I can’t bear it.
FREDERICK: You might tell me what you can bear.
BARBARA: Why can’t you cast me off — why can’t you find some other woman — there’s Annabel, who adores you — or Lizzie Burroughs —
FREDERICK: You think they’d make good successors to you?
BARBARA: You might love them better than me — you might! See, I was not faithful to you.
FREDERICK (laughing): I wouldn’t rub it in, if I were you.
BARBARA (frightened): But I’m not!
FREDERICK: So you think I might do well to marry again?
BARBARA: I thought — I can’t bear — to think of you being lonely.
FREDERICK: And you’d give me a wedding present, I dare say, and give the woman advice how to fool me.
BARBARA: No — no — I won’t let you say these things —
FREDERICK: I dare say. You were wasted on me, weren’t you?
BARBARA: You were good to me — but you never understood me —
FREDERICK: I’m sorry! I understood you wanted a decent life, and I worked hard for you. I understood you wanted some amusement — you did exactly as you liked — you had everything I had — and had your own way. I was faithful to you from the day I saw you — and before that. You might have called me a model husband. I suppose that was my fault.
BARBARA (crying): No — it wasn’t your fault to be a good husband — that’s why I love you still — in a way — you were so good to me — but — you weren’t near to me —
FREDERICK: I think I was as near as ever you’d let me come.
BARBARA: No — no — can’t you remember — when we were first married — I thought marriage would be a jolly thing — I thought I could have lovely games with the man. Can you remember, when I climbed to the top of the cupboard, in Lucerne? I thought you’d look for me, and laugh, and fetch me down. No, you were terrified. You daren’t even come in the room. You stood in the door looking frightened to death. And I climbed down. And that’s how it always was. I had to climb down.
FREDERICK: And so you left me?
BARBARA: Yes! I couldn’t live with you.
FREDERICK: Because I didn’t drag you by the ankle from the cupboard tops!
BARBARA: Yes — that’s it.
FREDERICK: And how long did it take you to find this out?
BARBARA: You know very well that I was only introduced to Wesson about a month before — you knew all about it.
FREDERICK: And may I inquire after the predecessors of this clown?
BARBARA: Yourself.
FREDERICK: I enjoy that honour alone, do I — with the miserable clown —
BARBARA: You were not going to speak of him.
FREDERICK: And pray, when did you find out then that I had not — not found the real you.
BARBARA: The first night of our marriage — when I stood on that balcony and wanted to drown myself — and you were asleep.
FREDERICK: And afterwards — I suppose you forgot it?
BARBARA: Sometimes. You were good to me — and I didn’t think then there could be anything else.
FREDERICK: Than what?
BARBARA: Than going on as I was — as your wife.
FREDERICK: And you never loved me?
BARBARA: Sometimes — when you were so nice to me —
FREDERICK: Out of gratitude, as it were, and feeling you ought to love me.
BARBARA: I always felt I ought to love you.
FREDERICK: But could never bring it off. Ha! — thank you for the try, at any rate.
BARBARA: And of course sometimes I hated you.
FREDERICK: Naturally.
BARBARA: And now it’s over.
FREDERICK: As you say — it’s over.
There is a long silence.
FREDERICK (in a sudden outburst): Woman, do you know I’ve given my life to you? Do you know, everything I did, everything I thought, everywhere I went, was for you? I have worked till I reeled, I was so tired. I have been your slave —
BARBARA: That’s it — I didn’t want you to be my slave —
FREDERICK: I — I — I have done everything. How often have I asked you, “What do you want of me?” Why didn’t you tell me then? Why didn’t you say? Why have you deceived me all this while, letting me think you loved me?
BARBARA: I didn’t deceive you; (crying) I didn’t know myself.
FREDERICK: How many times have you had your arms round my neck, and said, “Do you love me?” — I might well answer, “Malheureusement.” What was that but deceit —
BARBARA: It wasn’t lying to you, Frederick — you did love me, and I wanted you to love me —
FREDERICK: What right had you to want me to love you, when you cared not a couple of straws about me?
BARBARA: I did want you to love me — you were all I had —
FREDERICK: Until another came along, and then you threw my love away like a piece of dirty paper wrapping.
BARBARA: No — no — I didn’t!
FREDERICK: What else have you done? You have thrown me away like a bit of paper off a parcel. You got all the goods out of the packet, and threw me away — I gave you everything, my life, everything, and it is not worth the stump of a cigarette, when it comes to — I tell you, this is the end of me. I could work then, but now my brain has gone.
BARBARA: No, Frederick, no — you will work again.
FREDERICK: I tell you I can no more work now than you can row a boat when you have lost the oars. I am done for — as a man you see me here a ruin. Some nights I sleep, some nights I never close my eyes. I force myself to keep sane. But in the end my brain will go — and then I shall make an end —
BARBARA (going over to him, kneeling with her hand on his knee, crying): No — no, Frederick — no — no!
FREDERICK: Then I shall go to Wood Norton — do you remember, where I saw you first — a girl of eighteen with a sash? I shall go to that pine wood where the little grove of larches is, and I shall make an end.
BARBARA (her head on his knee — weeping): Oh, what can I do — what can I do?
FREDERICK: I’ve no doubt it all sounds very melodramatic — but it’s the truth for me. Then your work will be finished. I have loved you. I would have spilt my blood on every paving stone in Bromley for you, if you had wanted me to —
BARBARA: But I didn’t want you to. I wanted you to come near to me and make me yours and you be mine. But you went on worshipping me instead of loving me — kissing my feet instead of helping me. You put me on a pedestal, and I was miserable.
FREDERICK: And you never loved me all the time!
BARBARA: I did love you — I did love you!
FREDERICK (his fists clenched — shuddering): I could strangle you!
BARBARA (terrified): Don’t — don’t — I shall scream! (She gets up afraid and draws back. He gets hold of one of her arms.)
FREDERICK: You devil — you devil — you devil! But you belong to me, do you hear? — you belong to me!
BARBARA (pushing him away): Don’t — don’t — let me go — I shall call Mama — oh —
He releases her — she flings herself face down on the sofa — he sits crouching, glaring. Silence for some time.
FREDERICK: Well, have you been there long enough?
BARBARA (sitting up): Yes — long enough to know that it never was any good, and it never would be any good.
FREDERICK: “It never was any good, and never would be any good” — what?
BARBARA: You and me.
FREDERICK: You and me! Do you mean to tell me that my life has been a lie and a falsity?
BARBARA: Why?
FREDERICK: You were my life — you — and you say it was never any good between us.
BARBARA: But you had your work. Think, if you had to choose between me and your work.
FREDERICK: You might as well ask an apple-tree to choose between enjoying the sunshine and growing its own apples: the one depends on the other and is the result of the other.
BARBARA: No, Frederick. Why, look how happy you could be with your work when I was miserable.
FREDERICK: But you had no reason to be. I gave you everything you asked for. What did you want?
BARBARA: I suppose I wanted something you could not give.
FREDERICK (glaring at her — after a silence, suddenly): I had a good mind to murder you.
BARBARA (frightened): Why?
FREDERICK: I had a good mind to murder you as you sit there.
BARBARA (frightened): See — see how you loved me!
FREDERICK: How I loved you! Yes — you see! You see how I loved you, you callous devil! Haven’t I loved you with every breath I’ve fetched — haven’t I?
BARBARA: But what was the good of loving me if you had all the fun out of it? It didn’t seem anything to me because I didn’t realize — I didn’t know —
FREDERICK: You didn’t love me!
BARBARA: No — well — you should have seen that I did. It doesn’t do me any good, if a man dies for love of me, unless there is some answer in me, so that it lives in me.
FREDERICK: I ought to have killed myself rather than marry you.
BARBARA: But I couldn’t help that, could I?
FREDERICK: No, you could help nothing. You could only throw me away like waste-paper that had wrapped up a few years of your life.
BARBARA: I’m sorry, Frederick. I’ll do what I can; I will, really.
FREDERICK: What will you do?
BARBARA: Don’t you trust me?
FREDERICK: Trust you, yes! You can go on doing as you like with me.
BARBARA: There you are, you see, resigned. Resigned from the very start — resigned to lose. You are, and you always were.
FREDERICK: Very well, you little devil — it seems you were determined —
BARBARA: What?
FREDERICK: To destroy me.
BARBARA (going and putting her arms round his neck): No — no, Frederick. I’d do an awful lot for you — I really would — I have loved you.
FREDERICK: What, for example?
BARBARA: I’d help you with the people in Chislehurst — come and live for a time in the same house.
FREDERICK (holding her by the arms and looking in her eyes): Will you give up this man and come back to me?
BARBARA: Oh — what’s the good of promising, Frederick — I might only break it again. Don’t force me.
FREDERICK: Will you try? Will you try me again for three months?
BARBARA: Come and live with you again?
FREDERICK: Yes.
BARBARA: As your wife?
FREDERICK: Yes.
BARBARA: Altogether as your wife?
FREDERICK: Yes — or even — at first —
BARBARA (piteously): I don’t know, Frederick.
FREDERICK: Will you think about it?
BARBARA: But I don’t know! What is the good of thinking about it? But I don’t know, Frederick.
FREDERICK: You can make up your mind.
BARBARA: But I can’t — I can’t — it pulls both ways. I don’t know, Frederick.
FREDERICK: Will you know better to-morrow — will you come, then, and tell me — will you?
BARBARA: But I shan’t know any better to-morrow. It’s now! And I can’t tell. Don’t make me decide, Frederick!
FREDERICK: What?
BARBARA: Which way. Don’t make me decide! (She goes and sits on the couch, hiding her face in a cushion.)
FREDERICK (suddenly flings his arms on the table and sobs): Oh, good God — I can’t bear it!
BARBARA (looks at him, goes and puts her hand on his shoulder): Don’t, Frederick — don’t! I will make up my mind, I will!
FREDERICK (his face muffled): I can’t stand it.
BARBARA: No, dear. (He sobs — she touches his hair.) Don’t! Don’t! You shall — I will do — what I can.
FREDERICK (his face still hidden): It will kill me, Barbara.
BARBARA: No, dear — no, it won’t. I must think of something. I will tell you to-morrow. I will come and tell you —
FREDERICK (his face still hidden): What?
BARBARA: I don’t know, dear — but I will see — I will come. Look at me — look at me. (He lifts his face.) Dear! (He folds her in his arms — she puts her head back as he kisses her.) There’s Mama! He listens — hears a sound, snatches his hat and dashes out — BARBARA turns to the piano — straightens her hair — stands waiting. Enter LADY CHARLCOTE.
LADY CHARLCOTE: Has Frederick gone?
BARBARA: Yes.
Enter WESSON.
LADY CHARLCOTE: What have you decided?
BARBARA: I don’t know.
LADY CHARLCOTE: That’s no answer. Have you decided nothing?
BARBARA: No.
LADY CHARLCOTE: I hope he won’t go and jump in the lake.
BARBARA: I said I’d see him to-morrow.
LADY CHARLCOTE: Then he won’t be such a fool. How did he behave?
BARBARA: Oh, don’t talk about it, Mama!
LADY CHARLCOTE: And are you coming to the Monte Baldo tomorrow then?
BARBARA: Yes.
LADY CHARLCOTE: What time?
BARBARA: In the morning — about eleven.
LADY CHARLCOTE: And you’ll bring him your answer then?
BARBARA: Yes.
LADY CHARLCOTE: Well, you must decide for the best for yourself. Only don’t go and make a double mess of it, that’s all.
BARBARA: How do you mean, a double mess?
LADY CHARLCOTE: You’ll have to stick to one or the other now, at any rate — so you’d better stick to the one you can live with, and not to the one you can do without — for if you get the wrong one, you might as well drown two people then instead of one.
BARBARA: I don’t know — I shall know to-morrow, Mama. Good night.
LADY CHARLCOTE (kissing her — crying): Well — all you can do now is to make the bed for yourself. Good night! Oh, don’t trouble to come out, Mr Wesson, don’t.
WESSON follows her. Exit both. BARBARA sits down and begins to play a waltz on the piano. Re-enter WESSON.
WESSON: Frederick wasn’t far off — he hadn’t drowned himself.
BARBARA goes on playing.
WESSON: I don’t particularly want to hear that piano, Barbara.
BARBARA: Don’t you? (Plays a few more bars, then stops.) What do you want?
WESSON: So you are going to see him to-morrow.
BARBARA: I am.
WESSON: What for?
BARBARA (hesitating): To tell him I’ll go back to him.
She remains with her back to WESSON — he sits at the table. There is dead silence.
WESSON: Did you tell him that tonight?
BARBARA: No.
WESSON: Why not?
BARBARA: Because I didn’t want to.
WESSON: Did you give him hopes of that answer?
BARBARA: I don’t know.
WESSON: You do! Tell me.
BARBARA: I say I don’t know.
WESSON: Then you’re lying. I don’t believe you intended to tell him that. I believe you say it to make me wild.
BARBARA: I don’t.
WESSON: Then go now.
BARBARA: I said I’d go to-morrow.
WESSON: If you’re going back to Frederick in the morning, you’re not going to spend a night under this roof — hear that?
BARBARA: Why not? I’ve spent a good many nights under this roof — what does one more or less matter?
WESSON: While you’ve been with me here I considered you as a woman who wanted to stick to me as a wife — and as anything else I don’t want you.
BARBARA: Very much as a wife you considered me at first — you were as unsure of us as ever I was.
WESSON: That was at the very first.
BARBARA: Was it — was it?
WESSON: Whether or not — that’s what I say now.
BARBARA: “Whether or not!” — you would say that. At any rate, Frederick wouldn’t say “whether or not”.
WESSON: And you want to go back to him?
BARBARA: All men are alike. They don’t care what a woman wants. They try to get hold of what they want themselves, as if it were a pipe. As for the woman, she’s not considered — and so — that’s where you make your mistake, gentlemen.
WESSON: Want? What do you want?
BARBARA: That’s for you to find out.
WESSON: What you want is some of the conceit knocking out of you.
BARBARA: You do it, Mr Tuppeny-ha’penny.
WESSON: If Frederick hadn’t been such a damn fool he’d have taken you down a peg or two. Now, you think yourself so blighted high and mighty that nobody’s good enough to dangle after you.
BARBARA: Only a little puppy-dog that barks at my skirts.
WESSON: Very well, then the little puppy-dog will bark. Are you going to see Frederick in the morning?
BARBARA: Yes.
WESSON: And are you going to tell him, then, that you’re going back to him?
BARBARA: I don’t know.
WESSON: You must know then, because if you are, you’re not going to stop the night in this house.
BARBARA: Pooh! What do I care about your house?
WESSON: You know it was really you who wanted it, and whose it is.
BARBARA: As if I care for this house — I’d leave it any minute. I’ll leave it now.
WESSON: If you’re going to go back to Frederick, leave it now. I ask you to.
BARBARA: Oh, very well — that is soon done.
She goes out quickly.
CURTAIN