Джон Голсуорси
The Fugitive
CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that your blood runs cold when she kisses you – then you'll know.
HUNTINGDON. My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.
CLARE. Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.
HUNTINGDON. I mean, you – you chose him yourself. No one forced you to marry him.
CLARE. It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?
HUNTINGDON. My dear child, do give us a reason.
CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers] If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah, Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one cared where or what it was – beautiful like that! Apply that to every – every – everything.
HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old girl, if that's all —
CLARE. It's not all – it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie – it's not reason, at all; it's – it's like being underground in a damp cell; it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming – never anything coming again-never anything.
HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.
CLARE. When every day and every night! – Oh! I know it's my fault for having married him, but that doesn't help.
HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep going.
CLARE. I know.
HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it awfully.
CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home long ago.
HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it – but it simply won't.
CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.
HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?
CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.
HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.
CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?
HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New Woman and that kind of thing – haven't been brought up to it.
CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive – don't wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be going, Reggie.
[HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]
HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless you! Good-night.
CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.
CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home, and the maids can go to bed.
PAYNTER. We are much obliged, ma'am.
CLARE. I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.
PAYNTER. Naturally, ma'am!
CLARE. Good-night.
PAYNTER. I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?
CLARE. No, thank you.
PAYNTER. No, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.
[He withdraws.]
GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!
CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but I couldn't help it, really!
GEORGE. Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? My God! You were brought up as well as I was.
CLARE. Alas!
GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on – there's only one word for it – Disgusting!
CLARE. I know.
GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?
CLARE. I'm sorry.
GEORGE. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me!
CLARE. No – Really! Only – I must break out sometimes.
GEORGE. There are things one does not do.
CLARE. I came in because I was sorry.
GEORGE. And at once began to do it again! It seems to me you delight in rows.
CLARE. You'd miss your – reconciliations.
GEORGE. For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!
CLARE. And truth?
GEORGE. You are my wife, I suppose.
CLARE. And they twain shall be one – spirit.
GEORGE. Don't talk wild nonsense!
[There is silence.]
CLARE. [Softly] I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice!
GEORGE. Pish!
CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better together – if I went away?
GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some primitive sense of honour.
CLARE. You mean your name, don't you?
GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your head?
CLARE. No; my own evil nature.
GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up people you know nothing of. I distrust him – and his looks – and his infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not – good form.
CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!
GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in him?
CLARE. A mind.
GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind – as you call it – it's not necessary to talk about Art and Literature.
CLARE. We don't.
GEORGE. Then what do you talk about – your minds? [CLARE looks at him] Will you answer a straight question? Is he falling in love with you?
CLARE. You had better ask him.
GEORGE. I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe in the guide, philosopher and friend business.
CLARE. Thank you.
A silence. CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.
CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman.
GEORGE. Clare!
CLARE. I believe – I'm sure I could earn my living. Quite serious.
GEORGE. Are you mad?
CLARE. It has been done.
GEORGE. It will never be done by you – understand that!
CLARE. It really is time we parted. I'd go clean out of your life. I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your money.
GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us both.
CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're a spectacle!
GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as you behave yourself.
CLARE. That is – behave as you think right.
GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling.
CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time.
GEORGE. So am I.
[CLARE turns to the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a brute. I know you're not happy.
CLARE. And you – are you happy?
GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be?
CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.
GEORGE. We can try.
CLARE. I HAVE – haven't you?
GEORGE. We used —
CLARE. I wonder!
GEORGE. You know we did.
CLARE. Too long ago – if ever.
GEORGE [Coming closer] I – still —
CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard love.
GEORGE. We've got to face the facts.
CLARE. I thought I was.
GEORGE. The facts are that we're married – for better or worse, and certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly for me, in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can reasonably want; and I don't – don't wish for any change. If you could bring anything against me – if I drank, or knocked about town, or expected too much of you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I can see.
CLARE. Well, I think we've talked enough.
[She again moves towards the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried? That's simple purgatory. You ought to know.
CLARE. Yes. I haven't yet, have I?
GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with each other and make the best of it.
CLARE. Not by thousands.
GEORGE. Well, why do you imagine they do it?
CLARE. I don't know.
GEORGE. From a common sense of decency.
CLARE. Very!
GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you might try to make some amends, I should think.
CLARE moves her head from side to side, as if in sight of something she could not avoid. He puts his hand on her arm.
CLARE. No, no – no!
GEORGE. [Dropping his hand] Can't you make it up?
CLARE. I don't feel very Christian.
She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her. GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward, he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh. Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is standing, unhooking a necklet. He goes in, shutting the door behind him with a thud.
CURTAIN
ACT II
The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer door opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side lead to other rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of fine pictures, secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink, pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper, cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a soft hat, and a black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers, unshaved and uncollared, writing. He pauses, smiles, lights a cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up a sheet of quarto MS.
MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those excellent frock-coated gentlemen – not a sign, not a grimace. Only the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant Tyranny."
While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age, in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the corridor. She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron and a Bissell broom. Her movements are slow and imperturbable, as if she had much time before her. Her face is broad and dark, with Chinese eyebrows.
MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller!
MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
She comes and stands before him. MALISE writes.
MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below.
MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she stops. But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
MALISE. Well?
MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at pictures – it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv' a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket, and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers." "Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks to meself [She closes one eye] Rats! There's a good many corners hereabouts.
MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler.
MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh! you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful resource!
MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman?
MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock hats you can't abide.
MALISE. Isn't he a dun?
MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir. He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a jug o' water.
[MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]
MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave.
He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS. MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she rests. There is a soft knock on the door. She gets up leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door being opened CLARE is revealed.
CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in?
MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'.
CLARE. Oh.
MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name?
CLARE. Would you say – a lady.
MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm particular about not disturbin' things.
CLARE. I'm sure you are.
MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular.
Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and drops it into the fold of her skirt.
MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened – not like these 'ere bawgwars.
CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later.
MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh every mornin' – the Westminister.
She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.
MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut 'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!
She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves restlessly across the room.
MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's waitin'.
CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture "Sacred and Profane Love." MRS. MILER stands regarding her with a Chinese smile. MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still hanging to his cheek.
MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to her] Do the other room.
[Enigmatically she goes.]
MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything?
CLARE. I want advice-badly.
MALISE. What! Spreading your wings?
CLARE. Yes.
MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When?
CLARE. The morning after you gave it me…
MALISE. Well?
CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good. He was awfully sweet, only – he couldn't.
MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong to us. Yes.
CLARE. It was horrible. There were the children – and my old nurse. I could never live at home now. They'd think I was – . Impossible – utterly! I'd made up my mind to go back to my owner – And then – he came down himself. I couldn't d it. To be hauled back and begin all over again; I simply couldn't. I watched for a chance; and ran to the station, and came up to an hotel.
MALISE. Bravo!
CLARE. I don't know – no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to earn my living – no money; only a few things I can sell. All yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone ever get a chance?
MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your husband would pension you off.
CLARE. If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it.
MALISE. Good!
CLARE. I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do so hate watching pain. The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even do art work. I came to ask you about the stage.
MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training. There's Chorus – I don't recommend it. How about your brother?
CLARE. My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get married; and he's going back to India in September. The only friend I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's – got a husband.
MALISE. I remember the gentleman.
CLARE. Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back. I must lie doggo somehow.
MALISE. It makes my blood boil to think of women like you. God help all ladies without money.
CLARE. I expect I shall have to go back.
MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but – emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners, return to – duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so grow old and – die!
[The bell rings.]
MALISE. [Looking at the door in doubt] By the wayhe'd no means of tracing you?
[She shakes her head.] [The bell rings again.]
MALISE. Was there a man on the stairs as you came up?
CLARE. Yes. Why?
MALISE. He's begun to haunt them, I'm told.
CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I – oh! no!
MALISE. Confidence in me is not excessive.
CLARE. Spying!
MALISE. Will you go in there for a minute? Or shall we let them ring – or – what? It may not be anything, of course.
CLARE. I'm not going to hide.
[The bell rings a third time.]
MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see who it is; and then go, for the present.
MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to the door, and opens it. A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise? Would you give him these cards?"
MRS. MILER. [Re-entering] The cards.
MALISE. Mr. Robert Twisden. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond. [He looks at CLARE.]
CLARE. [Her face scornful and unmoved] Let them come.
MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in!
TWISDEN enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a fighting underlip, followed by SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND. MRS. MILER goes. There are no greetings.
TWISDEN. Mr. Malise? How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond? Had the pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [CLARE inclines her head] I am Mr. George Dedmond's solicitor, sir. I wonder if you would be so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?