Джон Голсуорси
Plays : Fourth Series
SCENE II
The BURLACOMBES' high and nearly empty barn. A lantern is hung by a rope that lifts the bales of straw, to a long ladder leaning against a rafter. This gives all the light there is, save for a slender track of moonlight, slanting in from the end, where the two great doors are not quite closed. On a rude bench in front of a few remaining, stacked, square-cut bundles of last year's hay, sits TIBBY JARLAND, a bit of apple in her mouth, sleepily beating on a tambourine. With stockinged feet GLADYS, IVY, CONNIE, and MERCY, TIM CLYST, and BOBBIE JARLAND, a boy of fifteen, are dancing a truncated "Figure of Eight"; and their shadow are dancing alongside on the walls. Shoes and some apples have been thrown down close to the side door through which they have come in. Now and then IVY, the smallest and best of the dancers, ejaculates words of direction, and one of the youths grunts or breathes loudly out of the confusion of his mind. Save for this and the dumb beat and jingle of the sleepy tambourine, there is no sound. The dance comes to its end, but the drowsy TIBBY goes on beating.
MERCY. That'll du, Tibby; we're finished. Ate yore apple. [The stolid TIBBY eats her apple.]
CLYST. [In his teasing, excitable voice] Yu maids don't dance 'elf's well as us du. Bobbie 'e's a great dancer. 'E dance vine. I'm a gude dancer, meself.
GLADYS. A'n't yu conceited just?
CLYST. Aw! Ah! Yu'll give me kiss for that. [He chases, but cannot catch that slippery white figure] Can't she glimmer!
MERCY. Gladys! Up ladder!
CLYST. Yu go up ladder; I'll catch 'ee then. Naw, yu maids, don't yu give her succour. That's not vair [Catching hold of MERCY, who gives a little squeal.]
CONNIE. Mercy, don't! Mrs. Burlacombe'll hear. Ivy, go an' peek.
[Ivy goes to flee side door and peers through.]
CLYST. [Abandoning the chase and picking up an apple—they all have the joyous irresponsibility that attends forbidden doings] Ya-as, this is a gude apple. Luke at Tibby!
[TIBBY, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen back into the hay, asleep. GLADYS, leaning against the hay breaks into humming:]
"There cam' three dukes a-ridin', a-ridin', a-ridin',
There cam' three dukes a ridin'
With a ransy-tansy tay!"
CLYST. Us 'as got on vine; us'll get prize for our dancin'.
CONNIE. There won't be no prize if Mr. Strangway goes away. 'Tes funny 'twas Mrs. Strangway start us.
IVY. [From the door] 'Twas wicked to hiss him.
[A moment's hush.]
CLYST. Twasn't I.
BOBBIE. I never did.
GLADYS. Oh! Bobbie, yu did! Yu blew in my ear.
CLYST. 'Twas the praaper old wind in the trees. Did make a brave noise, zurely.
MERCY. 'E shuld'n' 'a let my skylark go.
CLYST. [Out of sheer contradictoriness] Ya-as, 'e shude, then. What du yu want with th' birds of the air? They'm no gude to yu.
IVY. [Mournfully] And now he's goin' away.
CLYST. Ya-as; 'tes a pity. He's the best man I ever seen since I was comin' from my mother. He's a gude man. He'em got a zad face, sure enough, though.
IVY. Gude folk always 'ave zad faces.
CLYST. I knu a gude man—'e sold pigs—very gude man: 'e 'ad a budiful bright vase like the mane. [Touching his stomach] I was sad, meself, once. 'Twas a funny scrabblin'—like feelin'.
GLADYS. If 'e go away, whu's goin' to finish us for confirmation?
CONNIE. The Rector and the old grey mare.
MERCY. I don' want no more finishin'; I'm confirmed enough.
CLYST. Ya-as; yu'm a buty.
GLADYS. Suppose we all went an' asked 'im not to go?
IVY. 'Twouldn't be no gude.
CONNIE. Where's 'e goin'?
MERCY. He'll go to London, of course.
IVY. He's so gentle; I think 'e'll go to an island, where there's nothin' but birds and beasts and flowers.
CLYST. Aye! He'm awful fond o' the dumb things.
IVY. They're kind and peaceful; that's why.
CLYST. Aw! Yu see tu praaper old tom cats; they'm not to peaceful, after that, nor kind naighther.
BOBBIE. [Surprisingly] If 'e's sad, per'aps 'e'll go to 'Eaven.
IVY. Oh! not yet, Bobbie. He's tu young.
CLYST. [Following his own thoughts] Ya-as. 'Tes a funny place, tu, nowadays, judgin' from the papers.
GLADYS. Wonder if there's dancin' in 'Eaven?
IVY. There's beasts, and flowers, and waters, and 'e told us.
CLYST. Naw! There's no dumb things in 'Eaven. Jim Bere 'e says there is! 'E thinks 'is old cat's there.
IVY. Yes. [Dreamily] There's stars, an' owls, an' a man playin' on the flute. Where 'tes gude, there must be music.
CLYST. Old brass band, shuldn' wonder, like th' Salvation Army.
IVY. [Putting up her hands to an imaginary pipe] No; 'tis a boy that goes so; an' all the dumb things an' all the people goo after 'im—like this.
[She marches slowly, playing her imaginary pipe, and one by one they all fall in behind her, padding round the barn in their stockinged feet. Passing the big doors, IVY throws them open.]
An' 'tes all like that in 'Eaven.
[She stands there gazing out, still playing on her imaginary pipe. And they all stand a moment silent, staring into the moonlight.]
CLYST. 'Tes a glory-be full mune to-night!
IVY. A goldie-cup—a big one. An' millions o' little goldie-cups on the floor of 'Eaven.
MERCY. Oh! Bother 'Eaven! Let's dance "Clapperclaws"! Wake up, Tibby!
GLADYS. Clapperelaws, clapperclaws! Come on, Bobbie—make circle!
CLYST. Clapperclaws! I dance that one fine.
IVY. [Taking the tambourine] See, Tibby; like this. She hums and beats gently, then restores the tambourine to the sleepy TIBBY, who, waking, has placed a piece of apple in her mouth.
CONNIE. 'Tes awful difficult, this one.
IVY. [Illustrating] No; yu just jump, an' clap yore 'ands. Lovely, lovely!
CLYST. Like ringin' bells! Come ahn!
[TIBBY begins her drowsy beating, IVY hums the tune; they dance, and their shadows dance again upon the walls. When she has beaten but a few moments on the tambourine, TIBBY is overcome once more by sleep and falls back again into her nest of hay, with her little shoed feet just visible over the edge of the bench. Ivy catches up the tambourine, and to her beating and humming the dancers dance on.]
[Suddenly GLADYS stops like a wild animal surprised, and cranes her neck towards the aide door.]
CONNIE. [Whispering] What is it?
GLADYS. [Whispering] I hear—some one comin' across the yard.
[She leads a noiseless scamper towards the shoes. BOBBIE JARLAND shins up the ladder and seizes the lantern. Ivy drops the tambourine. They all fly to the big doors, and vanish into the moonlight, pulling the door nearly to again after them.]
[There is the sound of scrabbling at the hitch of the side door, and STRANGWAY comes into the nearly dark barn. Out in the night the owl is still hooting. He closes the door, and that sound is lost. Like a man walking in his sleep, he goes up to the ladder, takes the rope in his hand, and makes a noose. He can be heard breathing, and in the darkness the motions of his hands are dimly seen, freeing his throat and putting the noose round his neck. He stands swaying to and fro at the foot of the ladder; then, with a sigh, sets his foot on it to mount. One of the big doors creaks and opens in the wind, letting in a broad path of moonlight.]
[STRANGWAY stops; freeing his neck from the noose, he walks quickly up the track of moonlight, whitened from head to foot, to close the doors.]
[The sound of his boots on the bare floor has awakened TIBBY JARLAND. Struggling out of her hay nest she stands staring at his whitened figure, and bursts suddenly into a wail.]
TIBBY. O-oh! Mercy! Where are yu? I'm frightened! I'm frightened! O-oooo!
STRANGWAY. [Turning—startled] Who's that? Who is it?
TIBBY. O-oh! A ghosty! Oo-ooo!
STRANGWAY. [Going to her quickly] It's me, Tibby—Tib only me!
TIBBY. I seed a ghosty.
STRANGWAY. [Taking her up] No, no, my bird, you didn't! It was me.
TIBBY. [Burying her face against him] I'm frighted. It was a big one. [She gives tongue again] O-o-oh!
STRANGWAY. There, there! It's nothing but me. Look!
TIBBY. No. [She peeps out all the same.]
STRANGWAY. See! It's the moonlight made me all white. See! You're a brave girl now?
TIBBY. [Cautiously] I want my apple.
[She points towards her nest. STRANGWAY carries her there, picks up an apple, and gives it her. TIBBY takes a bite.]
TIBBY. I want any tambourine.
STRANGWAY. [Giving her the tambourine, and carrying her back into the' track of moonlight] Now we're both ghosties! Isn't it funny?
TABBY. [Doubtfully] Yes.
STRANGWAY. See! The moon's laughing at us! See? Laugh then!
[TABBY, tambourine in one hand and apple in the other, smiles stolidly. He sets her down on the ladder, and stands, holding her level With him.]
TABBY. [Solemnly] I'se still frightened.
STRANGWAY. No! Full moon, Tibby! Shall we wish for it?
TABBY. Full mune.
STRANGWAY. Moon! We're wishing for you. Moon, moon!
TIBBY. Mune, we're wishin' for yu!
STRANGWAY. What do, you wish it to be?
TIBBY. Bright new shillin'!
STRANGWAY. A face.
TIBBY. Shillin', a shillin'!
STRANGWAY. [Taking out a shilling and spinning it so that it falls into her pinafore] See! Your wish comes true.
TIBBY. Oh! [Putting the shilling in her mouth] Mune's still there!
STRANGWAY. Wish for me, Tibby!
TIBBY. Mune. I'm wishin' for yu!
STRANGWAY. Not yet!
TIBBY. Shall I shake my tambouline?
STRANGWAY. Yes, shake your tambouline.
TIBBY. [Shaking her tambourine] Mune, I'm shaken' at yu.
[STRANGWAY lays his hand suddenly on the rope, and swings it up on to the beam.]
TIBBY. What d'yu du that for?
STRANGWAY. To put it out of reach. It's better–
TIBBY. Why is it better? [She stares up at him.]
STRANGWAY. Come along, Tibby! [He carries her to the big doors, and sets her down] See! All asleep! The birds, and the fields, and the moon!
TIBBY. Mune, mune, we're wishing for yu!
STRANGWAY. Send her your love, and say good-night.
TIBBY. [Blowing a kiss] Good-night, mune!
[From the barn roof a little white dove's feather comes floating down in the wind. TIBBY follows it with her hand, catches it, and holds it up to him.]
TIBBY. [Chuckling] Luke. The mune's sent a bit o' love!
STRANGWAY. [Taking the feather] Thank you, Tibby! I want that bit o' love. [Very faint, comes the sound of music] Listen!
TIBBY. It's Miss Willis, playin' on the pianny!
STRANGWAY. No; it's Love; walking and talking in the world.
TIBBY. [Dubiously] Is it?
STRANGWAY. [Pointing] See! Everything coming out to listen! See them, Tibby! All the little things with pointed ears, children, and birds, and flowers, and bunnies; and the bright rocks, and—men! Hear their hearts beating! And the wind listening!
TIBBY. I can't hear—nor I can't see!
STRANGWAY. Beyond–[To himself] They are—they must be; I swear they are! [Then, catching sight of TIBBY'S amazed eyes] And now say good-bye to me.
TIBBY. Where yu goin'?
STRANGWAY. I don't know, Tibby.
VOICE OF MERCY. [Distant and cautious] Tibby! Tibby! Where are yu?
STRANGWAY. Mercy calling; run to her!
[TIBBY starts off, turns back and lifts her face. He bends to kiss her, and flinging her arms round his neck, she gives him a good hug. Then, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, she runs.]
[STRANGWAY stands, uncertain. There is a sound of heavy footsteps; a man clears his throat, close by.]
STRANGWAY. Who's that?
CREMER. Jack Cremer. [The big man's figure appears out of the shadow of the barn] That yu, zurr?
STRANGWAY. Yes, Jack. How goes it?
CREMER. 'Tes empty, zurr. But I'll get on some'ow.
STRANGWAY. You put me to shame.
CREMER. No, zurr. I'd be killin' meself, if I didn' feel I must stick it, like yu zaid.
[They stand gazing at each other in the moonlight.]
STRANGWAY. [Very low] I honour you.
CREMER. What's that? [Then, as STRANGWAY does not answer] I'll just be walkin'—I won' be gain' 'ome to-night. 'Tes the full mune— lucky.
STRANGWAY. [Suddenly] Wait for me at the crossroads, Jack. I'll come with you. Will you have me, brother?
CREMER. Sure!
STRANGWAY. Wait, then.
CREMER. Aye, zurr.
[With his heavy tread CREMER passes on. And STRANGWAY leans against the lintel of the door, looking at the moon, that, quite full and golden, hangs not far above the straight horizon, where the trees stand small, in a row.]
STRANGWAY. [Lifting his hand in the gesture of prayer] God, of the moon and the sun; of joy and beauty, of loneliness and sorrow—give me strength to go on, till I love every living thing!
[He moves away, following JACK CREMER. The full moon shines; the owl hoots; and some one is shaking TIBBY'S tambourine.]
THE FOUNDATIONS
(AN EXTRAVAGANT PLAY)
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY, M.P. LADY WILLIAM DROMONDY LITTLE ANNE MISS STOKES MR. POULDER JAMES HENRY THOMAS CHARLES THE PRESS LEMMY OLD MRS. LEMMY LITTLE AIDA THE DUKE OF EXETER
Some ANTI-SWEATERS; Some SWEATED WORKERS; and a CROWD
SCENES
SCENE I. The cellar at LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S in Park Lane.
SCENE II. The room of old MRS. LEMMY in Bethnal Green.
SCENE III. Ante-room of the hall at LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S
The Action passes continuously between 8 and 10.30 of a summer evening, some years after the Great War.
ACT I
LORD WILLIAM DROMONDY'S mansion in Park Lane. Eight o'clock of the evening. LITTLE ANNE DROMONDY and the large footman, JAMES, gaunt and grin, discovered in the wine cellar, by light of gas. JAMES, in plush breeches, is selecting wine.
L. ANNE: James, are you really James?
JAMES. No, my proper name's John.
L. ANNE. Oh! [A pause] And is Charles's an improper name too?
JAMES. His proper name's Mark.
L. ANNE. Then is Thomas Matthew?
JAMES. Miss Anne, stand clear o' that bin. You'll put your foot through one o' those 'ock bottles.
L. ANNE. No, but James—Henry might be Luke, really?
JAMES. Now shut it, Miss Anne!
L. ANNE. Who gave you those names? Not your godfathers and godmothers?
JAMES. Poulder. Butlers think they're the Almighty. [Gloomily] But his name's Bartholomew.
L. ANNE. Bartholomew Poulder? It's rather jolly.
JAMES. It's hidjeous.
L. ANNE. Which do you like to be called—John or James?
JAMES. I don't give a darn.
L. ANNE. What is a darn?
JAMES. 'Tain't in the dictionary.
L. ANNE. Do you like my name? Anne Dromondy? It's old, you know. But it's funny, isn't it?
JAMES. [Indifferently] It'll pass.
L. ANNE. How many bottles have you got to pick out?
JAMES. Thirty-four.
L. ANNE. Are they all for the dinner, or for the people who come in to the Anti-Sweating Meeting afterwards?
JAMES. All for the dinner. They give the Sweated—tea.
L. ANNE. All for the dinner? They'll drink too much, won't they?
JAMES. We've got to be on the safe side.
L. ANNE. Will it be safer if they drink too much?
[JAMES pauses in the act of dusting a bottle to look at her, as if suspecting irony.]
[Sniffing] Isn't the smell delicious here-like the taste of cherries when they've gone bad—[She sniffs again] and mushrooms; and boot blacking.
JAMES. That's the escape of gas.
L. ANNE. Has the plumber's man been?
JAMES. Yes.
L. ANNE. Which one?
JAMES. Little blighter I've never seen before.
L. ANNE. What is a little blighter? Can I see?
JAMES. He's just gone.
L. ANNE. [Straying] Oh! . . . James, are these really the foundations?
JAMES. You might 'arf say so. There's a lot under a woppin' big house like this; you can't hardly get to the bottom of it.
L. ANNE. Everything's built on something, isn't it? And what's THAT built on?
JAMES. Ask another.
L. ANNE. If you wanted to blow it up, though, you'd have to begin from here, wouldn't you?
JAMES. Who'd want to blow it up?
L. ANNE. It would make a mess in Park Lane.
JAMES. I've seen a lot bigger messes than this'd make, out in the war.
L. ANNE. Oh! but that's years ago! Was it like this in the trenches, James?
JAMES. [Grimly] Ah! 'Cept that you couldn't lay your 'and on a bottle o' port when you wanted one.
L. ANNE. Do you, when you want it, here?
JAMES. [On guard] I only suggest it's possible.
L. ANNE. Perhaps Poulder does.
JAMES. [Icily] I say nothin' about that.
L. ANNE. Oh! Do say something!
JAMES. I'm ashamed of you, Miss Anne, pumpin' me!
L. ANNE. [Reproachfully] I'm not pumpin'! I only want to make Poulder jump when I ask him.
JAMES. [Grinning] Try it on your own responsibility, then; don't bring me in!
L. ANNE. [Switching off] James, do you think there's going to be a bloody revolution?
JAMES. [Shocked] I shouldn't use that word, at your age.
L. ANNE. Why not? Daddy used it this morning to Mother. [Imitating] "The country's in an awful state, darling; there's going to be a bloody revolution, and we shall all be blown sky-high." Do you like Daddy?
JAMES. [Taken aback] Like Lord William? What do you think? We chaps would ha' done anything for him out there in the war.
L. ANNE. He never says that he always says he'd have done anything for you!
JAMES. Well—that's the same thing.
L. ANNE. It isn't—it's the opposite. What is class hatred, James?
JAMES. [Wisely] Ah! A lot o' people thought when the war was over there'd be no more o' that. [He sniggers] Used to amuse me to read in the papers about the wonderful unity that was comin'. I could ha' told 'em different.
L. ANNE. Why should people hate? I like everybody.
JAMES. You know such a lot o' people, don't you?
L. ANNE. Well, Daddy likes everybody, and Mother likes everybody, except the people who don't like Daddy. I bar Miss Stokes, of course; but then, who wouldn't?
JAMES. [With a touch of philosophy] That's right—we all bars them that tries to get something out of us.
L. ANNE. Who do you bar, James?
JAMES. Well—[Enjoying the luxury of thought]—Speaking generally, I bar everybody that looks down their noses at me. Out there in the trenches, there'd come a shell, and orf'd go some orficer's head, an' I'd think: That might ha' been me—we're all equal in the sight o' the stars. But when I got home again among the torfs, I says to meself: Out there, ye know, you filled a hole as well as me; but here you've put it on again, with mufti.
L. ANNE. James, are your breeches made of mufti?
JAMES. [Contemplating his legs with a certain contempt] Ah! Footmen were to ha' been off; but Lord William was scared we wouldn't get jobs in the rush. We're on his conscience, and it's on my conscience that I've been on his long enough—so, now I've saved a bit, I'm goin' to take meself orf it.
L. ANNE. Oh! Are you going? Where?
JAMES. [Assembling the last bottles] Out o' Blighty!
L. ANNE. Is a little blighter a little Englishman?
JAMES. [Embarrassed] Well-'e can be.
L. ANNE [Mining] James—we're quite safe down here, aren't we, in a revolution? Only, we wouldn't have fun. Which would you rather—be safe, or have fun?
JAMES. [Grimly] Well, I had my bit o' fun in the war.
L. ANNE. I like fun that happens when you're not looking.
JAMES. Do you? You'd ha' been just suited.
L. ANNE. James, is there a future life? Miss Stokes says so.
JAMES. It's a belief, in the middle classes.
L. ANNE. What are the middle classes?
JAMES. Anything from two 'undred a year to supertax.
L. ANNE. Mother says they're terrible. Is Miss Stokes middle class?
JAMES. Yes.
L. ANNE. Then I expect they are terrible. She's awfully virtuous, though, isn't she?
JAMES. 'Tisn't so much the bein' virtuous, as the lookin' it, that's awful.
L. ANNE. Are all the middle classes virtuous? Is Poulder?
JAMES. [Dubiously] Well. Ask him!
L. ANNE. Yes, I will. Look!
[From an empty bin on the ground level she picks up a lighted taper,—burnt almost to the end.]
JAMES. [Contemplating it] Careless!
L. Ate. Oh! And look! [She paints to a rounded metal object lying in the bin, close to where the taper was] It's a bomb! She is about to pick it up when JAMES takes her by the waist and puts her aside.
JAMES. [Sternly] You stand back, there! I don't like the look o' that!
L. ANNE. [With intense interest] Is it really a bomb? What fun!
JAMES. Go and fetch Poulder while I keep an eye on it.
L. ANNE. [On tiptoe of excitement] If only I can make him jump! Oh, James! we needn't put the light out, need we?
JAMES. No. Clear off and get him, and don't you come back.
L. ANNE. Oh! but I must! I found it!
JAMES. Cut along.
L. ANNE. Shall we bring a bucket?
JAMES. Yes. [ANNE flies off.]
[Gazing at the object] Near go! Thought I'd seen enough o'them to last my time. That little gas blighter! He looked a rum 'un, too—one o' these 'ere Bolshies.
[In the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are too much for him. He sits on the ground, leaning against one of the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large, lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee. Taking out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between his dips. There enter, behind him, as from a communication trench, POULDER, in swallow-tails, with LITTLE ANNE behind him.]
L. ANNE. [Peering round him—ecstatic] Hurrah! Not gone off yet! It can't—can it—while James is sitting on it?
POULDER. [Very broad and stout, with square shoulders,—a large ruddy face, and a small mouth] No noise, Miss.—James.
JAMES. Hallo!
POULDER. What's all this?
JAMES. Bomb!
POULDER. Miss Anne, off you go, and don't you–
L. ANNE. Come back again! I know! [She flies.]
JAMES. [Extending his hand with the pipe in it] See!
POULDER. [Severely] You've been at it again! Look here, you're not in the trenches now. Get up! What are your breeches goin' to be like? You might break a bottle any moment!
JAMES. [Rising with a jerk to a sort of "Attention!"] Look here, you starched antiquity, you and I and that bomb are here in the sight of the stars. If you don't look out I'll stamp on it and blow us all to glory! Drop your civilian swank!
POULDER. [Seeing red] Ho! Because you had the privilege of fightin' for your country you still think you can put it on, do you? Take up your wine! 'Pon my word, you fellers have got no nerve left!
[JAMES makes a sudden swoop, lifts the bomb and poises it in both hands. POULDER recoils against a bin and gazes, at the object.]
JAMES. Put up your hands!
POULDER. I defy you to make me ridiculous.
JAMES. [Fiercely] Up with 'em!
[POULDER'S hands go up in an uncontrollable spasm, which he subdues almost instantly, pulling them down again.]
JAMES. Very good. [He lowers the bomb.]
POULDER. [Surprised] I never lifted 'em.
JAMES. You'd have made a first-class Boche, Poulder. Take the bomb yourself; you're in charge of this section.
POULDER. [Pouting] It's no part of my duty to carry menial objects; if you're afraid of it I'll send 'Enry.
JAMES. Afraid! You 'Op o' me thumb!
[From the "communication trench" appears LITTLE ANNE, followed by a thin, sharp, sallow-faced man of thirty-five or so, and another FOOTMAN, carrying a wine-cooler.]
L. ANNE. I've brought the bucket, and the Press.
PRESS. [In front of POULDER'S round eyes and mouth] Ah, major domo, I was just taking the names of the Anti-Sweating dinner. [He catches sight of the bomb in JAMES'S hand] By George! What A.1. irony! [He brings out a note-book and writes] "Highest class dining to relieve distress of lowest class-bombed by same!" Tipping! [He rubs his hands].
POULDER. [Drawing himself up] Sir? This is present! [He indicates ANNE with the flat of his hand.]
L. ANNE. I found the bomb.
PRESS. [Absorbed] By Jove! This is a piece of luck! [He writes.]
POULDER. [Observing him] This won't do—it won't do at all!
PRESS. [Writing-absorbed] "Beginning of the British Revolution!"
POULDER. [To JAMES] Put it in the cooler. 'Enry, 'old up the cooler. Gently! Miss Anne, get be'ind the Press.
JAMES. [Grimly—holding the bomb above the cooler] It won't be the Press that'll stop Miss Anne's goin' to 'Eaven if one o' this sort goes off. Look out! I'm goin' to drop it.
[ALL recoil. HENRY puts the cooler down and backs away.]
L. ANNE. [Dancing forward] Oh! Let me see! I missed all the war, you know!
[JAMES lowers the bomb into the cooler.]
POULDER. [Regaining courage—to THE PRESS, who is scribbling in his note-book] If you mention this before the police lay their hands on it, it'll be contempt o' Court.
PRESS. [Struck] I say, major domo, don't call in the police! That's the last resort. Let me do the Sherlocking for you. Who's been down here?
L. ANNE. The plumber's man about the gas–a little blighter we'd never seen before.
JAMES. Lives close by, in Royal Court Mews—No. 3. I had a word with him before he came down. Lemmy his name is.
PRESS. "Lemmy!" [Noting the address] Right-o!
L. ANNE. Oh! Do let me come with you!
POULDER. [Barring the way] I've got to lay it all before Lord William.
PRESS. Ah! What's he like?
POULDER. [With dignity] A gentleman, sir.
PRESS. Then he won't want the police in.
POULDER. Nor the Press, if I may go so far, as to say so.
PRESS. One to you! But I defy you to keep this from the Press, major domo: This is the most significant thing that has happened in our time. Guy Fawkes is nothing to it. The foundations of Society reeling! By George, it's a second Bethlehem!
[He writes.]
POULDER. [To JAMES] Take up your wine and follow me. 'Enry, bring the cooler. Miss Anne, precede us. [To THE PRESS] You defy me? Very well; I'm goin' to lock you up here.
PRESS. [Uneasy] I say this is medieval.
[He attempts to pass.]
POULDER. [Barring the way] Not so! James, put him up in that empty 'ock bin. We can't have dinner disturbed in any way.
JAMES. [Putting his hands on THE PRESS'S shoulders] Look here—go quiet! I've had a grudge against you yellow newspaper boys ever since the war—frothin' up your daily hate, an' makin' the Huns desperate. You nearly took my life five hundred times out there. If you squeal, I'm gain' to take yours once—and that'll be enough.
PRESS. That's awfully unjust. Im not yellow!
JAMES. Well, you look it. Hup.
PRESS. Little Lady-Anne, haven't you any authority with these fellows?
L. ANNE. [Resisting Poulard's pressure] I won't go! I simply must see James put him up!
PRESS. Now, I warn you all plainly—there'll be a leader on this.
[He tries to bolt but is seized by JAMES.]
JAMES. [Ironically] Ho!
PRESS. My paper has the biggest influence
JAMES. That's the one! Git up in that 'ock bin, and mind your feet among the claret.
PRESS. This is an outrage on the Press.
JAMES. Then it'll wipe out one by the Press on the Public—an' leave just a million over! Hup!
POULDER. 'Enry, give 'im an 'and.
[THE PRESS mounts, assisted by JAMES and HENRY.]
L. ANNE. [Ecstatic] It's lovely!
POULDER. [Nervously] Mind the '87! Mind!
JAMES. Mind your feet in Mr. Poulder's favourite wine!
[A WOMAN'S voice is heard, as from the depths of a cave, calling "Anne! Anne!"]
L. ANNE. [Aghast] Miss Stokes—I must hide!
[She gets behind POULDER. The three Servants achieve dignified positions in front of the bins. The voice comes nearer. THE PRESS sits dangling his feet, grinning. MISS STOKES appears. She is woman of forty-five and terribly good manners. Her greyish hair is rolled back off her forehead. She is in a high evening dress, and in the dim light radiates a startled composure.]
MISS STOKES. Poulder, where is Miss Anne?
[ANNE lays hold of the backs of his legs.]
POULDER. [Wincing] I am not in a position to inform you, Miss.
MISS S. They told me she was down here. And what is all this about a bomb?
POULDER. [Lifting his hand in a calming manner] The crisis is past; we have it in ice, Miss. 'Enry, show Miss Stokes! [HENRY indicates the cooler.]
MISS S. Good gracious! Does Lord William know?
POULDER. Not at present, Miss.
MISS S. But he ought to, at once.
POULDER. We 'ave 'ad complications.
MISS S. [Catching sight of the legs of THE PRESS] Dear me! What are those?
JAMES. [Gloomily] The complications.
[MISS STOKES pins up her glasses and stares at them.]
PRESS. [Cheerfully] Miss Stokes, would you kindly tell Lord William I'm here from the Press, and would like to speak to him?
MISS S. But—er—why are you up there?
JAMES. 'E got up out o' remorse, Miss.
MISS S. What do you mean, James?
PRESS. [Warmly] Miss Stokes, I appeal to you. Is it fair to attribute responsibility to an unsigned journalist—for what he has to say?
JAMES. [Sepulchrally] Yes, when you've got 'im in a nice dark place.
MISS. S. James, be more respectful! We owe the Press a very great debt.
JAMES. I'm goin' to pay it, Miss.
MISS S. [At a loss] Poulder, this is really most–
POULDER. I'm bound to keep the Press out of temptation, miss, till I've laid it all before Lord William. 'Enry, take up the cooler. James, watch 'im till we get clear, then bring on the rest of the wine and lock up. Now, Miss.
MISS S. But where is Anne?
PRESS. Miss Stokes, as a lady–!
MISS S. I shall go and fetch Lord William!
POULDER. We will all go, Miss.
L. ANNE. [Rushing out from behind his legs] No—me!
[She eludes MISS STOKES and vanishes, followed by that distracted but still well-mannered lady.]
POULDER. [Looking at his watch] 'Enry, leave the cooler, and take up the wine; tell Thomas to lay it out; get the champagne into ice, and 'ave Charles 'andy in the 'all in case some literary bounder comes punctual.
[HENRY takes up the wine and goes.]
PRESS. [Above his head] I say, let me down. This is a bit undignified, you know. My paper's a great organ.
POULDER. [After a moment's hesitation] Well—take 'im down, James; he'll do some mischief among the bottles.
JAMES. 'Op off your base, and trust to me.
[THE PRESS slides off the bin's edge, is received by JAMES, and not landed gently.]
POULDER. [Contemplating him] The incident's closed; no ill-feeling, I hope?
PRESS. No-o.
POULDER. That's right. [Clearing his throat] While we're waitin' for Lord William—if you're interested in wine—[Philosophically] you can read the history of the times in this cellar. Take 'ock: [He points to a bin] Not a bottle gone. German product, of course. Now, that 'ock is 'sa 'avin' the time of its life—maturin' grandly; got a wonderful chance. About the time we're bringin' ourselves to drink it, we shall be havin' the next great war. With luck that 'ock may lie there another quarter of a century, and a sweet pretty wine it'll be. I only hope I may be here to drink it. Ah! [He shakes his head]—but look at claret! Times are hard on claret. We're givin' it an awful doin'. Now, there's a Ponty Canny [He points to a bin]– if we weren't so 'opelessly allied with France, that wine would have a reasonable future. As it is—none! We drink it up and up; not more than sixty dozen left. And where's its equal to come from for a dinner wine—ah! I ask you? On the other hand, port is steady; made in a little country, all but the cobwebs and the old boot flavour; guaranteed by the British Nary; we may 'ope for the best with port. Do you drink it?