Джон Голсуорси
Plays : Fourth Series
PRESS. When I get the chance.
POULDER. Ah! [Clears his throat] I've often wanted to ask: What do they pay you—if it's not indelicate?
[THE PRESS shrugs his shoulders.]
Can you do it at the money?
[THE PRESS shakes his head.] Still—it's an easy life! I've regretted sometimes that I didn't have a shot at it myself; influencin' other people without disclosin' your identity—something very attractive about that. [Lowering his voice] Between man and man, now-what do you think of the situation of the country—these processions of the unemployed—the Red Flag an' the Marsillaisy in the streets—all this talk about an upheaval?
PRESS. Well, speaking as a Socialist–
POULDER. [Astounded] Why; I thought your paper was Tory!
PRESS. So it is. That's nothing!
POULDER. [Open-mouthed] Dear me! [Pointing to the bomb] Do you really think there's something in this?
JAMES. [Sepulchrally] 'Igh explosive.
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Too much, anyway, to let it drop.
[A pleasant voice calls "Poulder! Hallo!".]
POULDER. [Forming a trumpet with his hand] Me Lord!
[As LORD WILLIAM appears, JAMES, overcome by reminiscences; salutes, and is mechanically answered. LORD WILLIAM has "charm." His hair and moustache are crisp and just beginning to grizzle. His bearing is free, easy, and only faintly armoured. He will go far to meet you any day. He is in full evening dress.]
LORD W. [Cheerfully] I say, Poulder, what have you and James been doing to the Press? Liberty of the Press—it isn't what it was, but there is a limit. Where is he?
[He turns to Jams between whom and himself there is still the freemasonry of the trenches.]
JAMES. [Pointing to POULDER] Be'ind the parapet, me Lord.
[THE PRESS mopes out from where he has involuntarily been. screened by POULDER, who looks at JAMES severely. LORD WILLIAM hides a smile.]
PRESS. Very glad to meet you, Lord William. My presence down here is quite involuntary.
LORD W. [With a charming smile] I know. The Press has to put its— er—to go to the bottom of everything. Where's this bomb, Poulder? Ah!
[He looks into the wine cooler.]
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Could I have a word with you on the crisis, before dinner, Lord William?
LORD W. It's time you and James were up, Poulder. [Indicating the cooler] Look after this; tell Lady William I'll be there in a minute.
POULDER. Very good, me Lord.
[He goes, followed by JAMES carrying the cooler.]
[As THE PRESS turns to look after them, LORD WILLIAM catches sight of his back.]
LORD W. I must apologise, sir. Can I brush you?
PRESS. [Dusting himself] Thanks; it's only behind. [He opens his note-book] Now, Lord William, if you'd kindly outline your views on the national situation; after such a narrow escape from death, I feel they might have a moral effect. My paper, as you know, is concerned with—the deeper aspect of things. By the way, what do you value your house and collection at?
LORD W. [Twisting his little mustache] Really: I can't! Really!
PRESS. Might I say a quarter of a million-lifted in two seconds and a half-hundred thousand to the second. It brings it home, you know.
LORD W. No, no; dash it! No!
PRESS. [Disappointed] I see—not draw attention to your property in the present excited state of public feeling? Well, suppose we approach it from the viewpoint of the Anti-Sweating dinner. I have the list of guests—very weighty!
LORD W. Taken some lifting-wouldn't they?
PRESS. [Seriously] May I say that you designed the dinner to soften the tension, at this crisis? You saw that case, I suppose, this morning, of the woman dying of starvation in Bethnal Green?
LORD W. [Desperately] Yes-yes! I've been horribly affected. I always knew this slump would come after the war, sooner or later.
PRESS. [Writing] ". . . had predicted slump."
LORD W. You see, I've been an Anti-Sweating man for years, and I thought if only we could come together now . . . .
PRESS. [Nodding] I see—I see! Get Society interested in the Sweated, through the dinner. I have the menu here. [He produces it.]
LORD W. Good God, man—more than that! I want to show the people that we stand side by side with them, as we did in the trenches. The whole thing's too jolly awful. I lie awake over it.
[He walks up and down.]
PRESS. [Scribbling] One moment, please. I'll just get that down— "Too jolly awful—lies awake over it. Was wearing a white waistcoat with pearl buttons." [At a sign of resentment from his victim.] I want the human touch, Lord William—it's everything in my paper. What do you say about this attempt to bomb you?
LORD W. Well, in a way I think it's d–d natural
PRESS. [Scribbling] "Lord William thought it d–d natural."
LORD W. [Overhearing] No, no; don't put that down. What I mean is, I should like to get hold of those fellows that are singing the Marseillaise about the streets—fellows that have been in the war— real sports they are, you know—thorough good chaps at bottom—and say to them: "Have a feeling heart, boys; put yourself in my position." I don't believe a bit they'd want to bomb me then.
[He walks up and down.]
PRESS. [Scribbling and muttering] "The idea, of brotherhood—" D'you mind my saying that? Word brotherhood—always effective—always–
[He writes.]
LORD E. [Bewildered] "Brotherhood!" Well, it's pure accident that I'm here and they're there. All the same, I can't pretend to be starving. Can't go out into Hyde Park and stand on a tub, can I? But if I could only show them what I feel—they're such good chaps— poor devils.
PRESS. I quite appreciate! [He writes] "Camel and needle's eye." You were at Eton and Oxford? Your constituency I know. Clubs? But I can get all that. Is it your view that Christianity is on the up-grade, Lord William?
LORD W. [Dubious] What d'you mean by Christianity—loving—kindness and that? Of course I think that dogma's got the knock.
[He walks.]
PRESS. [Writing] "Lord William thought dogma had got the knock." I should like you just to develop your definition of Christianity. "Loving—kindness" strikes rather a new note.
LORD W. New? What about the Sermon on the Mount?
PRESS. [Writing] "Refers to Sermon on Mount." I take it you don't belong to any Church, Lord William?
LORD W. [Exasperated] Well, really—I've been baptised and that sort of thing. But look here–
PRESS. Oh! you can trust me—I shan't say anything that you'll regret. Now, do you consider that a religious revival would help to quiet the country?
LORD W. Well, I think it would be a deuced, good thing if everybody were a bit more kind.
PRESS. Ah! [Musing] I feel that your views are strikingly original, Lord William. If you could just open out on them a little more? How far would you apply kindness in practice?
LORD W. Can you apply it in theory?
PRESS. I believe it is done. But would you allow yourself to be blown up with impunity?
LORD W. Well, that's a bit extreme. But I quite sympathise with this chap. Imagine yourself in his shoes. He sees a huge house, all these bottles; us swilling them down; perhaps he's got a starving wife, or consumptive kids.
PRESS. [Writing and murmuring] Um-m! "Kids."
LORD W. He thinks: "But for the grace of God, there swill I. Why should that blighter have everything and I nothing?" and all that.
PRESS. [Writing] "And all that." [Eagerly] Yes?
LORD W. And gradually—you see—this contrast—becomes an obsession with him. "There's got to be an example made," he thinks; and—er— he makes it, don't you know?
PRESS. [Writing] Ye-es? And—when you're the example?
LORD W. Well, you feel a bit blue, of course. But my point is that you quite see it.
PRESS. From the other world. Do you believe in a future life, Lord William? The public took a lot of interest in the question, if you remember, at the time of the war. It might revive at any moment, if there's to be a revolution.
LORD W. The wish is always father to the thought, isn't it?
PRESS. Yes! But—er—doesn't the question of a future life rather bear on your point about kindness? If there isn't one—why be kind?
LORD W. Well, I should say one oughtn't to be kind for any motive— that's self-interest; but just because one feels it, don't you know.
PRESS. [Writing vigorously] That's very new—very new!
LORD W. [Simply] You chaps are wonderful.
PRESS. [Doubtfully] You mean we're—we're–
LORD W. No, really. You have such a d–d hard time. It must be perfectly beastly to interview fellows like me.
PRESS. Oh! Not at all, Lord William. Not at all. I assure you compared with a literary man, it's—it's almost heavenly.
LORD W. You must have a wonderful knowledge of things.
PRESS. [Bridling a little] Well—I shouldn't say that.
LORD W. I don't see how you can avoid it. You turn your hands to everything.
PRESS. [Modestly] Well—yes, Yes.
LORD W. I say: Is there really going to be a revolution, or are you making it up, you Press?
PRESS. We don't know. We never know whether we come before the event, or it comes before us.
LORD W. That's—very deep—very dip. D'you mind lending me your note-book a moment. I'd like to stick that down. All right, I'll use the other end. [THE PRESS hands it hypnotically.]
LORD W. [Jotting] Thanks awfully. Now what's your real opinion of the situation?
PRESS. As a man or a Press man?
LORD W. Is there any difference?
PRESS. Is there any connection?
LORD W. Well, as a man.
PRESS. As a man, I think it's rotten.
LORD W. [Jotting] "Rotten." And as a pressman?
PRESS. [Smiling] Prime.
LORD W. What! Like a Stilton cheese. Ha, ha!
[He is about to write.]
PRESS. My stunt, Lord William. You said that.
[He jots it on his cuff.]
LORD W. But look here! Would you say that a strong press movement would help to quiet the country?
PRESS. Well, as you ask me, Lord William, I'll tell you. No newspapers for a month would do the trick.
LORD W. [Jotting] By Jove! That's brilliant.
PRESS. Yes, but I should starve. [He suddenly looks up, and his eyes, like gimlets, bore their way into LORD WILLIAM'S pleasant, troubled face] Lord William, you could do me a real kindness. Authorise me to go and interview the fellow who left the bomb here; I've got his address. I promise you to do it most discreetly. Fact is—well—I'm in low water. Since the war we simply can't get sensation enough for the new taste. Now, if I could have an article headed: "Bombed and Bomber"—sort of double interview, you know, it'd very likely set me on my legs again. [Very earnestly] Look! [He holds out his frayed wristbands.]
LORD W. [Grasping his hand] My dear chap, certainly. Go and interview this blighter, and then bring him round here. You can do that for one. I'd very much like to see him, as a matter of fact.
PRESS. Thanks awfully; I shall never forget it. Oh! might I have my note-book?
[LORD WILLIAM hands it back.]
LORD W. And look here, if there's anything—when a fellow's fortunate and another's not–
[He puts his hand into his breast pocket.]
PRESS. Oh, thank you! But you see, I shall have to write you up a bit, Lord William. The old aristocracy—you know what the public still expects; if you were to lend me money, you might feel–
LORD W. By Jove! Never should have dreamt–
PRESS. No! But it wouldn't do. Have you a photograph of yourself.
LORD W. Not on me.
PRESS. Pity! By the way, has it occurred to you that there may be another bomb on the premises?
LORD W. Phew! I'll have a look.
[He looks at his watch, and begins hurriedly searching the bins, bending down and going on his knees. THE PRESS reverses the notebook again and sketches him.]
PRESS. [To himself] Ah! That'll do. "Lord William examines the foundations of his house."
[A voice calls "Bill!" THE PRESS snaps the note-book to, and looks up. There, where the "communication trench" runs in, stands a tall and elegant woman in the extreme of evening dress.]
[With presence of mind] Lady William? You'll find Lord William—Oh! Have you a photograph of him?
LADY W. Not on me.
PRESS. [Eyeing her] Er—no—I suppose not—no. Excuse me! [He sidles past her and is gone.]
LADY W. [With lifted eyebrows] Bill!
LORD W. [Emerging, dusting his knees] Hallo, Nell! I was just making sure there wasn't another bomb.
LADY W. Yes; that's why I came dawn: Who was that person?
LORD W. Press.
LADY W. He looked awfully yellow. I hope you haven't been giving yourself away.
LORD W. [Dubiously] Well, I don't know. They're like corkscrews.
LADY W. What did he ask you?
LORD W. What didn't he?
LADY W. Well, what did you tell him?
LORD W. That I'd been baptised—but he promised not to put it down.
LADY W. Bill, you are absurd.
[She gives a light tittle laugh.]
LORD W. I don't remember anything else, except that it was quite natural we should be bombed, don't you know.
LADY W. Why, what harm have we done?
LORD W. Been born, my dear. [Suddenly serious] I say, Nell, how am I to tell what this fellow felt when he left that bomb here?
LADY W. Why do you want to?
LORD W. Out there one used to know what one's men felt.
LADY W. [Staring] My dear boy, I really don't think you ought to see the Press; it always upsets you.
LORD W. Well! Why should you and I be going to eat ourselves silly to improve the condition of the sweated, when–
LADY W. [Calmly] When they're going to "improve" ours, if we don't look out. We've got to get in first, Bill.
LORD W. [Gloomily] I know. It's all fear. That's it! Here we are, and here we shall stay—as if there'd never been a war.
LADY W. Well, thank heaven there's no "front" to a revolution. You and I can go to glory together this time. Compact! Anything that's on, I'm to abate in.
LORD W. Well, in reason.
LADY W. No, in rhyme, too.
LORD W. I say, your dress!
LADY W. Yes, Poulder tried to stop me, but I wasn't going to have you blown up without me.
LORD W. You duck. You do look stunning. Give us a kiss!
LADY W. [Starting back] Oh, Bill! Don't touch me—your hands!
LORD W. Never mind, my mouth's clean.
They stand about a yard apart, and banding their faces towards each other, kiss on the lips.
L. ANNE. [Appearing suddenly from the "communication trench," and tip-toeing silently between them] Oh, Mum! You and Daddy ARE wasting time! Dinner's ready, you know!
CURTAIN
ACT II
The single room of old MRS. LEMMY, in a small grey house in Bethnal Green, the room of one cumbered by little save age, and the crockery debris of the past. A bed, a cupboard, a coloured portrait of Queen Victoria, and—of all things—a fiddle, hanging on the wall. By the side of old MRS. LEMMY in her chair is a pile of corduroy trousers, her day's sweated sewing, and a small table. She sits with her back to the window, through which, in the last of the light, the opposite side of the little grey street is visible under the evening sky, where hangs one white cloud shaped like a horned beast. She is still sewing, and her lips move. Being old, and lonely, she has that habit of talking to herself, distressing to those who cannot overhear. From the smack of her tongue she was once a West Country cottage woman; from the look of her creased, parchmenty face, she was once a pretty girl with black eyes, in which there is still much vitality. The door is opened with difficulty and a little girl enters, carrying a pile of unfinished corduroy trousers nearly as large as herself. She puts them down against the wall, and advances. She is eleven or twelve years old; large-eyed, dark haired, and sallow. Half a woman of this and half of another world, except when as now, she is as irresponsible a bit of life as a little flowering weed growing out of a wall. She stands looking at MRS. LEMMY with dancing eyes.
L. AIDA. I've brought yer to-morrer's trahsers. Y'nt yer finished wiv to-dy's? I want to tyke 'em.
MRS. L. No, me dear. Drat this last one—me old fengers!
L. AIDA. I learnt some poytry to-dy—I did.
MRS. L. Well, I never!
L. AIDA. [Reciting with unction]
"Little lamb who myde thee?
Dost thou know who myde thee,
Gyve thee life and byde thee feed
By the stream and oer the mead;
Gyve the clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gyve thee such a tender voice,
Myking all the vyles rejoice.
Little lamb who myde thee?
Dost thou know who myde thee?"
MRS. L. 'Tes wonderful what things they tache ya nowadays.
L. AIDA. When I grow up I'm goin' to 'ave a revolver an' shoot the people that steals my jools.
MRS. L. Deary-me, wherever du yu get yore notions?
L. AIDA. An' I'm goin' to ride on as 'orse be'ind a man; an' I'm goin' to ryce trynes in my motor car.
MRS. L. [Dryly] Ah!—Yu'um gwine to be very busy, that's sartin. Can you sew?
L. AIDA. [With a Smile] Nao.
MRS. L. Don' they tache Yu that, there?
L. AIDA. [Blending contempt and a lingering curiosity] Nao.
MRS. L. 'Tes wonderful genteel.
L. AIDA. I can sing, though.
MRS. L. Let's 'ear yu, then.
L. AIDA. [Shaking her head] I can ply the pianner. I can ply a tune.
MRS. L. Whose pianner?
L. AIDA. Mrs. Brahn's when she's gone aht.
MRS. L. Well, yu are gettin' edjucation! Du they tache yu to love yore neighbours?
L. AIDA. [Ineffably] Nao. [Straying to the window] Mrs. Lemmy, what's the moon?
MRS. L. The mune? Us used to zay 'twas made o' crame cheese.
L. AIDA. I can see it.
MRS. L. Ah! Don' yu never go wishin' for it, me dear.
L. AIDA. I daon't.
MRS. L. Folks as wish for the mune never du no gude.
L. AIDA. [Craning out, brilliant] I'm goin' dahn in the street. I'll come back for yer trahsers.
MRS. L. Well; go yu, then, and get a breath o' fresh air in yore chakes. I'll sune 'a feneshed.
L. AIDA. [Solemnly] I'm goin' to be a dancer, I am.
She rushes suddenly to the door, pulls it open, and is gone.
MRS. L. [Looking after her, and talking to herself.] Ah! 'Er've a-got all 'er troubles before 'er! "Little lamb, a made'ee?" [Cackling] 'Tes a funny world, tu! [She sings to herself.]
"There is a green 'ill far away
Without a city wall,
Where our dear-Lord was crucified,
'U died to save us all."
The door is opened, and LEMMY comes in; a little man with a stubble of dark moustache and spiky dark hair; large, peculiar eyes he has, and a look of laying his ears back, a look of doubting, of perversity with laughter up the sleeve, that grows on those who have to do with gas and water. He shuts the door.
MRS. L. Well, Bob, I 'aven't a-seen yu this tu weeks.
LEMMY comes up to his mother, and sits down on a stool, sets a tool-bag between his knees, and speaks in a cockney voice.
LEMMY. Well, old lydy o' leisure! Wot would y' 'ave for supper, if yer could choose—salmon wivaht the tin, an' tipsy cyke?
MRS. L. [Shaking her head and smiling blandly] That's showy. Toad in the 'ole I'd 'ave—and a glass o' port wine.
LEMMY. Providential. [He opens a tool-bag] Wot dyer think I've got yer?
MRS. L. I 'ope yu've a-got yureself a job, my son!
LEMMY. [With his peculiar smile] Yus, or I couldn't 'ave afforded yer this. [He takes out a bottle] Not 'arf! This'll put the blood into yer. Pork wine—once in the cellars of the gryte. We'll drink the ryyal family in this.
[He apostrophises the portrait of Queen Victoria.]
MRS. L. Ah! She was a praaper gude queen. I see 'er once, when 'er was bein' burried.
LEMMY. Ryalties—I got nothin' to sy agynst 'em in this country. But the STYTE 'as got to 'ave its pipes seen to. The 'ole show's goin' up pop. Yer'll wyke up one o' these dyes, old lydy, and find yerself on the roof, wiv nuffin' between yer an' the grahnd.
MRS. L. I can't tell what yu'm talkin' about.
LEMMY. We're goin' to 'ave a triumpherat in this country Liberty, Equality, Fraternity; an' if yer arsk me, they won't be in power six months before they've cut each other's throats. But I don't care—I want to see the blood flow! (Dispassionately) I don' care 'oose blood it is. I want to see it flow!
MRS. L. [Indulgently] Yu'm a funny boy, that's sartin.
LEMMY. [Carving at the cork with a knife] This 'ere cork is like Sasiety—rotten; it's old—old an' moulderin'. [He holds up a bit of cork on the point of the knife] Crumblin' under the wax, it is. In goes the screw an' out comes the cork. [With unction]—an' the blood flows. [Tipping the bottle, he lets a drop fall into the middle of his hand, and licks it up. Gazing with queer and doubting commiseration at has mother] Well, old dear, wot shall we 'ave it aht of—the gold loving-cup, or—what? 'Ave yer supper fust, though, or it'll go to yer 'ead! [He goes to the cupboard and taken out a disk in which a little bread is sopped in a little' milk] Cold pap! 'Ow can yer? 'Yn't yer got a kipper in the 'ouse?
MRS. L. [Admiring the bottle] Port wine! 'Tis a brave treat! I'll 'ave it out of the "Present from Margitt," Bob. I tuk 'ee therr by excursion when yu was six months. Yu 'ad a shrimp an' it choked yu praaperly. Yu was always a squeamy little feller. I can't never think 'ow yu managed in the war-time, makin' they shells.
LEMMY, who has brought to the table two mugs and blown the duet out of; them, fills them with port, and hands one to his mother, who is eating her bread and milk.
LEMMY. Ah! Nothin' worried me, 'cept the want o' soap.
MRS. L. [Cackling gently] So it du still, then! Luke at yore face. Yu never was a clean boy, like Jim.
[She puts out a thin finger and touches his cheek, whereon is a black smudge.]
LEMMY. [Scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve.] All right! Y'see, I come stryte 'ere, to get rid o' this.
[He drinks.]
MRS. L. [Eating her bread and milk] Tes a pity yu'm not got a wife to see't yu wash yureself.
LEMMY. [Goggling] Wife! Not me—I daon't want ter myke no food for pahder. Wot oh!—they said, time o' the war—ye're fightin' for yer children's 'eritage. Well; wot's the 'eritage like, now we've got it? Empty as a shell before yer put the 'igh explosive in. Wot's it like? [Warming to his theme] Like a prophecy in the pypers—not a bit more substantial.
MRS. L. [Slightly hypnotised] How 'e du talk! The gas goes to yore 'ead, I think!
LEMMY. I did the gas to-dy in the cellars of an 'ouse where the wine was mountains 'igh. A regiment couldn't 'a drunk it. Marble pillars in the 'all, butler broad as an observytion balloon, an' four conscientious khaki footmen. When the guns was roarin' the talk was all for no more o' them glorious weeds-style an' luxury was orf. See wot it is naow. You've got a bare crust in the cupboard 'ere, I works from 'and to mouth in a glutted market—an' there they stand abaht agyne in their britches in the 'oases o' the gryte. I was reg'lar overcome by it. I left a thing in that cellar—I left a thing . . . . It'll be a bit ork'ard for me to-mower. [Drinks from his mug.]
MRS. L. [Placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk] What thing?
LEMMY. Wot thing? Old lydy, ye're like a winkle afore yer opens 'er—I never see anything so peaceful. 'Ow dyer manage it?
MRS. L. Settin' 'ere and thenkin'.
LEA. Wot abaht?
MRS. L. We-el—Money, an' the works o' God.
LEMMY. Ah! So yer give me a thought sometimes.
MRS. L. [Lofting her mug] Yu ought never to ha' spent yore money on this, Bob!
LEMMY. I thought that meself.
MRS. L. Last time I 'ad a glass o' port wine was the day yore brother Jim went to Ameriky. [Smacking her lips] For a teetotal drink, it du warm 'ee!
LEMMY. [Raising his mug] Well, 'ere's to the British revolution! 'Ere's to the conflygrytion in the sky!
MRS. L. [Comfortably] So as to kape up therr, 'twon't du no 'arm.
LEMMY goes to the window and unhooks his fiddle; he stands with it halfway to his shoulder. Suddenly he opens the window and leans out. A confused murmur of voices is heard; and a snatch of the Marseillaise, sung by a girl. Then the shuffling tramp of feet, and figures are passing in the street.
LEMMY. [Turning—excited] Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy? There it is —there it is!
MRS. L. [Placidly] What is?
LEMMY. The revolution. [He cranes out] They've got it on a barrer. Cheerio!
VOICE. [Answering] Cheerio!
LEMMY. [Leaning out] I sy—you 'yn't tykin' the body, are yer?
VOICE. Nao.
LEMMY. Did she die o' starvytion O.K.?
VOICE. She bloomin' well did; I know 'er brother.
LEMMY. Ah! That'll do us a bit o' good!
VOICE. Cheerio!
LEMMY. So long!
VOICE. So long!
[The girl's voice is heard again in the distance singing the Marseillaise. The door is flung open and LITTLE AIDA comes running in again.]
LEMMY. 'Allo, little Aida!
L. AIDA. 'Allo, I been follerin' the corfin. It's better than an 'orse dahn!
MRS. L. What coffin?
L. AIDA. Why, 'er's wot died o' starvytion up the street. They're goin' to tyke it to 'Yde Pawk, and 'oller.
MRS. L. Well, never yu mind wot they'm goin' to du: Yu wait an' take my trousers like a gude gell.
[She puts her mug aside and takes up her unfinished pair of trousers. But the wine has entered her fingers, and strength to push the needle through is lacking.]
LEMMY. [Tuning his fiddle] Wot'll yer 'ave, little Aida? "Dead March in Saul" or "When the fields was white wiv dysies"?
L. AIDA. [With a hop and a brilliant smile] Aoh yus! "When the fields"–
MRS. L. [With a gesture of despair] Deary me! I 'aven't a-got the strength!
LEMMY. Leave 'em alone, old dear! No one'll be goin' aht wivaht trahsers to-night 'cos yer leaves that one undone. Little Aida, fold 'em up!
[LITTLE AIDA methodically folds the five finished pairs of trousers into a pile. LEMMY begins playing. A smile comes on the face of MRS. L, who is rubbing her fingers. LITTLE AIDA, trousers over arm, goes and stares at LEMMY playing.]
LEMMY. [Stopping] Little Aida, one o' vese dyes yer'll myke an actress. I can see it in yer fyce!
[LITTLE AIDA looks at him wide-eyed.]
MRS. L. Don't 'ee putt things into 'er 'ead, Bob!
LEMMY. 'Tyn't 'er 'ead, old lydy—it's lower. She wants feedin'– feed 'er an' she'll rise. [He strikes into the "Machichi"] Look at 'er naow. I tell yer there's a fortune in 'er.
[LITTLE AIDA has put out her tongue.]
MRS. L. I'd saner there was a gude 'eart in 'er than any fortune.
L. AIDA. [Hugging her pile of trousers] It's thirteen pence three farthin's I've got to bring yer, an' a penny aht for me, mykes twelve three farthin's: [With the same little hop and sudden smile] I'm goin' to ride back on a bus, I am.
LEMMY. Well, you myke the most of it up there; it's the nearest you'll ever git to 'eaven.
MRS. L. Don' yu discourage 'er, Bob; she'm a gude little thing, an't yu, dear?
L. AIDA. [Simply] Yus.
LEMMY. Not 'arf. Wot c'her do wiv yesterdy's penny?
L. AIDA. Movies.
LEMMY. An' the dy before?
L. AIDA. Movies.
LEMMY. Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy—she's got vicious tystes, she'll finish in the theayter yep Tyke my tip, little Aida; you put every penny into yer foundytions, yer'll get on the boards quicker that wy.
MRS. L. Don' yu pay no 'eed to his talk.
L. AIDA. I daon't.
Ice. Would yer like a sip aht o' my mug?
L. AIDA. [Brilliant] Yus.
MRS. L. Not at yore age, me dear, though it is teetotal.
[LITTLE AIDA puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to understand.]
LEMMY. Well, 'ave one o' my gum-drops.
[Holds out a paper.]
[LITTLE AIDA brilliant, takes a flat, dark substance from it, and puts it in her mouth.]
Give me a kiss, an' I'll give yer a penny.
[LITTLE AIDA shakes her head, and leans out of window.]
Movver, she daon't know the valyer of money.
MRS. L. Never mind 'im, me dear.
L. AIDA. [Sucking the gum-drop—with difficulty] There's a taxi-cab at the corner.
[LITTLE AIDA runs to the door. A figure stands in the doorway; she skids round him and out. THE PRESS comes in.]
LEMMY. [Dubiously] Wat-oh!
PRESS. Mr. Lemmy?
LEMMY. The syme.
PRESS. I'm from the Press.
LEMMY. Blimy.
PRESS. They told me at your place you wens very likely here.
LEMMY. Yus I left Downin' Street a bit early to-dy! [He twangs the feddle-strings pompously.]
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book and writing] "Fiddles while Rome is burning!" Mr. Lemmy, it's my business at this very critical time to find out what the nation's thinking. Now, as a representative working man—
LEMMY. That's me.
PRESS. You can help me. What are your views?
LEMMY. [Putting down fiddle] Voos? Sit dahn!
[THE PRESS sits on the stool which LEMMY has vacated.]
The Press—my Muvver. Seventy-seven. She's a wonder; 'yn't yer, old dear?
PRESS. Very happy to make your acquaintance, Ma'am. [He writes] "Mrs. Lemmy, one of the veterans of industry–" By the way, I've jest passed a lot of people following a coffin.
LEMMY. Centre o' the cyclone—cyse o' starvytion; you 'ad 'er in the pyper this mornin'.
PRESS. Ah! yes! Tragic occurrence. [Looking at the trousers.] Hub of the Sweated Industries just here. I especially want to get at the heart–
MRS. L. 'Twasn't the 'eart, 'twas the stomach.
PRESS. [Writing] "Mrs. Lemmy goes straight to the point."
LEMMY. Mister, is it my voos or Muvver's yer want?
PRESS. Both.
LEMMY. 'Cos if yer get Muvver's, yer won't 'ave time for mine. I tell yer stryte [Confidentially] she's get a glawss a' port wine in 'er. Naow, mind yer, I'm not anxious to be intervooed. On the other 'and, anyfink I might 'eve to sy of valyer–There is a clawss o' politician that 'as nuffn to sy—Aoh! an' daon't 'e sy it just! I dunno wot pyper yer represent.
PRESS. [Smiling] Well, Mr. Lemmy, it has the biggest influ–
LEMMY. They all 'as that; dylies, weeklies, evenin's, Sundyes; but it's of no consequence—my voos are open and aboveboard. Naow, wot shall we begin abaht?
PRESS. Yourself, if you please. And I'd like you to know at once that my paper wants the human note, the real heart-beat of things.
LEMMY. I see; sensytion! Well; 'ere am I—a fustclawss plumber's. assistant—in a job to-dy an' out tomorrer. There's a 'eart-beat in that, I tell yer. 'Oo knows wot the mower 'as for me!
PRESS. [Writing]. "The great human issue—Mr. Lemmy touches it at once."
LEMMY. I sy keep my nyme aht o' this; I don' go in fer self-advertisement.
PRESS. [Writing] "True working-man—modest as usual."
LEMMY. I daon't want to embarrass the Gover'ment. They're so ticklish ever since they got the 'abit, war-time, o' mindin' wot people said.
PRESS. Right-o!
LEMMY. For instance, suppose there's goin' to be a revolution– [THE PRESS writes with energy.] 'Ow does it touch me? Like this: I my go up—I cawn't come dahn; no more can Muvver.
MRS. L. [Surprisingly] Us all goes down into the grave.
PRESS. "Mrs. Lemmy interjects the deeper note."
LEMMY. Naow, the gryte—they can come dahn, but they cawn't go up! See! Put two an' two together, an' that's 'ow it touches me. [He utters a throaty laugh] 'Ave yer got that?